


In The End, It Was Always You

by geekgoddesskilobyte



Category: Once Upon a Time in Wonderland (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Ending, Destiny, Dreams, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Healing, Love, Magic, Sorrow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:30:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8635288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekgoddesskilobyte/pseuds/geekgoddesskilobyte
Summary: He isn’t exactly known for his honesty, but he should tell her. About how much he needs her, more than he ever needed Ana. About how she made him hope again and believe in magic. Not the tricks and spells Jafar cast or even the ability of the rabbit to open portals. No, in the magic of the heart and soul.

  In True Love.
 [An alternate take on how Alice and the Knave's story ends.]





	1. The Dream

In his dreams, he fails her.

He watches, helpless, as they strike the fiery life from her face with a fluid snap of their wrists and a small hammer; the gleaming tool penetrates her right at the edge of her once bright eyes. That’s all it takes to snuff the fight out of her. She goes slack in the ties that hold her to the chair, shoulders releasing all their defiance.

And in his dreams he screams for her to return to him, but she just smiles at nothing. It’s not the smile of the Alice he knows. Not the sharp smirk that more than often followed a clever quip. Nor the soft knowing smile she gave him at night across the fire while they talked about love and hope and the future. This is the startling smile of emptiness and those aren’t shadows made by camp light dancing over her face. They’re the shadows of doctors congratulating themselves for another successful procedure.

His Alice stares back at him with eyes that no longer glimmer in recognition and he knows at that moment he’d give anything to have her say his name, even if in anger.

Then the flood of guilt hits him. If he’d listened to the rabbit sooner, if he’d put his bloody pride aside for a single moment, if he’d taken the direct route instead of the cautious one, if he’d never let her go home all those years ago, if, if, if…

Then he’s reduced to tears, clutching her limp hand. _Him._

Even when Jafar struck Ana down, he hadn’t cried.

But he cries for Alice in his dreams.

In between the sobs that wrack his body and the blank face of a husk that once held the girl he loves, he imagines she whispers his name.

“Will…”

“Will…”

***

“Will!”

Then he’s awake, sweat beading on his forehead, tracks of moisture running down his flushed cheeks. Alice leans over him, her wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulder to brush the leather of his jacket.

Her brow is creased in concern, the set of her jaw all too familiar. Boring into his eyes, hers flash like embers; Alice is in protective mode and he’s almost surprised to find her without her sword drawn. But she knows this isn’t something she can just cut down or punch in the face.

“You were shouting,” she says, loosing her vice-like grip on his shoulder. Alice rolls back onto the balls of her heels, watching him as he sits up. “Was it about Ana again?”

He never has the courage to tell her the truth about the dreams. She thinks he mourns the death of his Red Queen. A better man would but those tears tried long before her death. Still, Alice’s eyes are filled with so much concern, so much bloody _care,_ he can’t tell her what really haunts him.

“I never make it. Try as I might, she just slips away from me.” He gulps, gazing away from her scrutiny, sure that all it would take is one good look for her to disassemble his lie. His hand absently strays to his chest where his heart is beating like a wild drum, furious and fearful.

“Don’t you dare think of it, Knave,” Alice says in a tone that will broker no argument.

Will pulls his hand back quickly, schooling his face into a carefree mask and scoffs. “Alice, it’s my bloody heart. If I wanna rip it out and throw it into the Boiling Sea, well then that’s damn well my prerogative, ain’t it?”

“Don’t be daft, that would just kill you,” she says this as though it’s the most absurd idea she’s ever heard, but her eyes go soft again, understanding just how paper thin his walls are right now. “She wouldn’t want that for you.”

Alice still thinks this is about Ana’s death. That he’s been wasting slowly, reaching out to meet her in death’s embrace.

 _And who the hell is to blame for that?_ he thinks.

“At least I’ll go quickly.” His laugh is hollow.

She knows he won’t drop the carefree façade, and she doesn’t ask him to, because she’s already been at death’s door more times than he cares to remember. She knows the kind of strength it takes to face that, won’t strip him of his armor. And despite their continued hunt for Cyrus, her steps have slowed to allow him time to mourn, so he lets her think his nightmares are of Ana.

He’s a right bastard too, using that to keep them together longer. _Just another day_ , he thinks, telling himself that maybe tomorrow the nightmare will cease its torture and he won’t feel so full of fear at the idea of losing her.

Which nearly makes him laugh, if he takes a moment to think about it. He’s almost lost her a dozen times over. To sorrow, to the machinations of The Red Queen, to the Tulgy Woods, to Jafar…

When Jafar used the last of his dying power to fling Cyrus’ bottle to the other side of Wonderland, Alice had nearly given up. He recalls how she wept, collapsing into his arms while Jafar laughed with his dying breath. He’d held her like that for hours while Jafar’s body dissolved and dispersed on a soft wind, his magic fully – _and finally_ – spent. For hours more, he’d held her, stroking her hair without words to say.

They wouldn’t have helped then anyways. Once again, she’d been separated from Cyrus. She needed a place to withdraw, to feel her pain and sorrow. And if there was anything Will understood better than his own needs, it was hers. So he’d swallowed down all snark and bite and boastful promises and just let her feel while he held her steady.

“You know, we could take a break.”

At this he snaps his gaze back to her. Her face is open and honest, heart right there for him to see on her freckled, earnest face. She was never very good at hiding her emotions and right now her heart breaks for him.

_Him._

But he’s not truly surprised. Alice has a way of drawing a family around her comprised of ragtag vagabonds, woodland outcasts, and one irreverent knave and she’d defend them to her dying breath. They’d do no less for her either. But he wants more than that for her. More than death and this endless search.

He looks at the busted charm still hanging around her neck. Even though the glow died with Jafar, shattered by his power, she still clings to that tiny piece of Cyrus. Sometimes, when they’ve stopped for the night, he spies her staring off into the distance, a thumb and index finger rubbing at the cold pendant.

“I fear I’ve been very selfish. Dragging you across Wonderland so soon after Ana’s…” she trails off, trying to soften the words in her head before speaking, “passing. I would understand if you needed to leave.”

She doesn’t add ‘ _me’_ to the end of her sentence but it hangs between them. And there’s that honesty on her face again. She doesn’t _want_ him to leave her, but she means what she says. She’d put his needs above her own if he so desired it.

They’re two sides of the same coin really, because there is nothing he would deny her if she asked it of him. Though he might pretend it put him out to do so. He has a persona to maintain after all.

He isn’t exactly known for his honesty, but he should tell her. About how much he needs her, more than he ever needed Ana. About how she made him hope again and believe in magic. Not the tricks and spells Jafar cast or even the ability of the rabbit to open portals. No, in the magic of the heart and soul.

In True Love.

Emotion constricts his throat, stalling the words. Why was it so bloody hard to say he loves her? That he’s been falling from the moment she’d saved them from the Mellow Marsh.

Perhaps it’s the fact they’re still on a mad hunt for the genie who holds her heart, who owns the tears she cries in the middle of the night.

“You know me, love. Just need a good night’s sleep and I’ll be right as rain.”

Alice narrows her eyes, lips and brow pinching in a knowing scowl. She can see right through his lie. “Except you aren’t even getting that, Will.”

“Maybe because _somebody_ keeps waking me up. Besides, what about Cyrus? He’s trapped in that bottle god knows where and you traipsing through the Tulgy Woods alone will only end in marvelous disaster. You have a knack for getting into trouble, Alice. We shouldn’t stop.” He wants to stop, badly.

Her fingers stray up to the pendant. “Will…”

Her tone makes him ache. And the soft look in her eyes…he’d give anything for that look to be directed at him, to be _for_ him.

“I’m not stopping, Alice. Not till we get you your happy ending.” And the last pieces of his heart crumbled away into ash. This would bloody well kill him, but he’d do it…for her.

Something flits across her face while she stares at him silently. Then she pulls back till she can rest her back on the trunk of the tree beside him. “Tomorrow then, Knave.” And she falls asleep there, her warmth against his side chasing away the remnants of his dreams. Hours later he drifts off, lulled into a fitful slumber by her steady breathing.


	2. Sword Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An eternity stretches between them, time suspended like a star in the sky, and she can only stare as the smile slowly slips from his face into something deeper, full of emotion. They stand, poised like statues in perpetual anticipation, staring into each other’s eyes. Her breath catches in her throat. The world could end around them and she’d hardly register its passing._

In her dreams, she fails him.

She watches helpless as a bolt of raw, crackling magic severs him from the happiness he’s fought so hard to obtain. One moment there is life and the next it is snuffed, leaving a limp and broken form sprawled over the stone floor; hair like spilled honey, limbs bent like a doll’s – perfect and still.

She can’t bring herself to comprehend the wail that escapes his throat. It’s not real. Not real. _Not Real._

On a harsh wind, one that pulls her hair into wild tangles and ripples the blood red edge of his loose coat, she hears her own words hurtling towards her ears like a spear.

She’d promised him a happy ending. Promised herself that no matter what her feelings were, no matter how it hurt, she’d get him the one thing he no longer seemed to believe in.

He collapses, singed at his fingertips from the arcing bolt that’s brought down his lover. And she’s frozen, understanding – with cutting clarity – just how much her quest has cost him. He’d followed her from a place of relative acceptance, traveling through hell and high water only to lose everything at the end.

All for her.

His eyes, shimmering like river stones with unshed tears, lock on to her. Brows, full and stark against his paling skin, are drawn together in anguish. He’s shouting something, calling out to her, raising a hand to point at something…something behind her. The wind rips the words from him but the alarm on his face sends her into action.

It’s like twisting through mud, like trying to pull herself from the Mellow Marsh, but she manages to turn. On the ground before her lays the broken doll and the bent, shuddering form of her dearest friend. He’s pointing away from her, towards another version of herself. This second _her_ turns. And he points towards another and another. And so forth, till the scene appears like a mirror hall portrait of grief and pain.

She tries turning again, and again, but she cannot see what he points to, all she sees is _him._

Her heart shatters each time his face finds hers and his slender finger raises. Pointing, pointing, pointing.

He mouths a word but over the violent wind she cannot hear him. She strains, stretching out a hand to grab at him but he remains at the edge of her reach. He screams now, face pulled tight in fear, but she’s stuck in a loop, watching him and breaking over and over.

Finally, the howling wind dies down, allowing his words to drift towards her. _Cyyyyruuuusss…_

But she cannot turn. Doesn’t _want_ to turn, she realizes. She can only sigh a single name, full of yearning and regret.

_Will._

***

 

They’re finally at the edge of the woods, breaking through the tree line like prisoners emerging from their dark cells into glorious sunlight. He hasn’t spoken since that morning and she finds herself looking over her shoulder half a dozen times just to make sure he’s still trailing behind her.

His lack of sarcasm and banter has her concerned. Despite the number of times she’s grumbled at him for his retorts, rebuttals, and rebukes she doesn’t know how to handle the absence of his sharp tongue and wit. They’d edged close to the Caterpillar’s territory and Will hadn’t even made a single cutting comment about the double-dealing cheat.

She wants to ask him what’s on his mind but fears it would only conjure images of Ana’s broken body. There was no love lost between her and the Red Queen, but even that thought makes her shudder. Instead she picks up two small tree branches, discarded on the path either by weather or a careless Wonderland traveler. A tight spin on her heel, one branch firmly in her grip, she launches the second towards him.

“On guard, Knave!” She dips into a half crouch, ready to spar.

Will catches the branch with a small fumble. He had been looking out over the valley at the base of the mountains. They're not far from a tiny broken down gypsy cart and Alice can only imagine his mind, even now, traces every abandoned article of a life he no longer owns. They should have taken the other trail but he'd insisted this was the fastest route to the mountains. Even in his grief he’s trying to get her to Cyrus as quickly as he can.

Ready to leave her behind and forget he ever knew her? She wouldn’t blame him.

“Alice, I'm a thief, a ruffian. Not a high and mighty knight.” Will lets the branch droop in his hand but doesn't drop it.

She moves, rocking from heel to toe and back again. “That's because you don't practice.” A gentle whack at the limp branch forces his arm back in order to hold on to it. He glares at her. Her heart stutters at the familiar look.

“I'm a charmer, love. I prefer the cut of a well-placed smile to the cut of a blade.” He turns to look at the tree line to his left. She knows he's about to try a feint. She obliges and looks to where he's gazing.

He rushes forward suddenly, stabbing the branch forward towards her abdomen. At the last moment she spins, the branch glancing off her hip, making the trim on her skirt flutter with the motion. She brings her right leg around in a sweeping arc, sending dust up in a little cloud, till it’s behind her again, then leans in for a thrust of her own.

It pegs him right in the left shoulder.

“Bloody hell Alice, do you always see it coming?” He rubs at the spot she hit him.

“You inch forward with your left foot right before you strike. Dead giveaway, Knave.” She raises the mock sword again, arching one eyebrow. She begins to feel a little life flowing through her cold bones. It's been weeks since she last remembers what warmth felt like.

Except, last night.

She remembers how warm Will was, leaning against the tree in the dark. About how comfortable and safe she felt in those moments before drifting off. For the first night since Jafar's death, she hadn't felt like she was back at Bethlem, trapped and waiting in the dark for the hammer strike. Hadn't felt like every shadow watched her, waiting for her to closer her eyes before descending upon her with the tools of their vicious trade.

And she feels guilty even as she realizes this. She'd woken Will last night to offer him comfort – and a chance to leave her for what she'd caused – but instead she'd taken comfort in _him_.

She'd been doing that for a long time now. Seeking the comfort of Will's presence. She bravely forged through the forest, faced off against Jafar, even went toe to toe with the Red Queen when they'd been enemies and she’d thought Cyrus had been the light guiding her. She'd come to realize in recent days what truly fueled that fearless fire in her.

She'd always had Will at her back.

“Some of us weren’t born wielding a sword like a barbarian,” he says, but something sparkles in his eyes. A hint of humor. It sends a wave of heat through her, making her heart race. It’s been so long since she’s seen that look in his eyes. Will’s about to throw everything he has into this mock battle.

She readies for it, delighting in the way her skin practically vibrates in anticipation.

Will dances around her, practicing the footwork she’s taught him with all the grace of the stealthy thief he is; so he _had_ been working on his swordsmanship. She parries a sudden thrust, ducking down low to take a swipe at his knee. Just before the branch connects with him, Will brings his own down and knocks hers back.

The exertion on her limbs sends waves of adrenaline through her. This is what she loves – movement, the fine line between play and practice. _Action_. It’s been a while since she could act without life and death hanging over her every choice. Even Will seems to be enjoying the match, trying to trick her a time or two and she is impressed at his attempts to hide that sliding left foot. She still spies it and thwarts his attack.

A breeze tugs at her loosely tied hair, pulling a few strands free. They float around her face, caught up in the wind’s playful fingers. Will pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath, eyes riveted to her. She leans forward into a somersault and spins on a heel as she comes back up behind him.

“Clever,” he says, a smirk shaping his lips into a crescent. That look makes her heart flutter and she returns it with one of her own, thrusting the branch towards him.

He gives no ground, instead his eyes grow dark and he presses the advantage. He comes closer with each whack of the limbs against each other.

What’s he doing?

Closer he moves, till any attempt to swing their makeshift swords grows awkward. Alice knows she needs to move or they will be in close quarters combat and without a fake dagger to match her fake sword.

When he moves another step, she starts to make room between them but he drops his sword arm and grabs her waist with his free hand, pulling them together till she’s pressing against him. His lips are scant inches from her own. She nearly drops her own weapon, stunned into silence by the brilliant smile he flashes her.

An eternity stretches between them, time suspended like a star in the sky, and she can only stare as the smile slowly slips from his face into something deeper, full of emotion. They stand, poised like statues in perpetual anticipation, staring into each other’s eyes. Her breath catches in her throat. The world could end around them and she’d hardly register its passing.

There are green flecks in those brown eyes. How had she never noticed?

Then he breaks the spell, pulling back. “See, you can’t beat a well-placed smile, love.”

_Cut to the core._

Alice notices at that moment Will has disarmed her, in more ways than one. He’s holding her sword in his hands, a triumphant smile slipping back onto his face. Inside her chest, her heart thuds, beating against her ribs like at any moment it will burst free from its cage and fly free.

She’s unsure how to react. The Will before Ana’s death…she knew how to handle herself around him. They moved like perfectly matched opponents, balancing each other’s strengths and weaknesses as though they shared one mind. The Will after Ana’s death…he’s solemn, withdrawn. He watches her from under heavy brows and she cannot connect to his thoughts, cannot read him.

Sometimes she catches a look on his face she’s seen on Cyrus before. An expression reserved for when he thinks she isn’t looking. Something in her shifts each time Will gives her that same look.

The emotions roiling through her are too raw to look at full in the face, so she does the only thing she can think of, she smacks him on the shoulder.

Will stands still, shock forming his lips into an O. For a second she worries that might have been the wrong tactic for this new Will. He might not be ready – now, or ever again – for a playful side. Then he releases a bellowing laugh, grabbing at his sides. The sound thrills her and something out of sync shifts back into place between them.

“You should see your face,” he says, between bouts of laughter.

She nearly smacks him a second time, but doesn’t have the heart to shatter this moment they’re sharing. It’s almost like the Will she knows so well has returned. Almost like there isn’t a dark cloud hanging between them.

Alice’s guilt threatens to destroy this brief moment of happiness. She doesn’t deserve it. Ana is dead and she can’t help but feel responsible. Will had only come to battle Jafar because of his loyalty to _her_. And the Red Queen followed where Will went. They should have left her to fight the sorcerer on her own, but she’d selfishly accepted their help because…

…because she wasn’t sure how to stand without Will at her back.

“Where to now, sore loser?” He laughs some more, tossing the branches back onto the path.

Alice looks over the valley stretching for miles before them. The Meadow of Living Flowers. In the distance dusky purple mountains raise up into the clouds. Somewhere on the other side of them Cyrus waits, trapped in a bottle. But she’s thinking of a tiny village at the base of the largest peak in the range.

It’s a beautiful and quiet place. The kind of place you can heal in, find balance in, maybe even forgive in.

Alice points to the curl of rising smoke from cottage chimneys. “The Golden Afternoon Inn.”

Will groans, face scrunches up in disgust. “The place where everyone is named after flowers? And the beer tastes like dirt and grass?”

“We can resupply there and rest before starting over the mountains.” There’s that guilt niggling at her again, because, while she intends to resupply at the inn, she also plans to leave Will there.

She wants – _desperately_ – to keep him by her side but she must put his needs first this time. She hopes one day he’ll forgive her. But she doesn’t dwell on that. For the moment she has her Will back and he’s smiling at her despite his dislike of floraly-named citizens and undrinkable alcohol.

“I’m won’t drink that shite, Alice, I can promise you that. Iris will try to make me but her temper be damned, I won’t drink it.” He starts stomping down the trail, his hands in his pockets. She smiles at him as he grumbles, her heart full and at peace, even as short-lived as it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, a choice awaits Will and Alice talks about Bethlem.


	3. The Golden Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“In my dream you told me stories about your life with Robin Hood as we lay under the stars. The warmth of the fire…it was as though I could feel it even in that cold, cold place. I don’t remember much about my first night in Bethlem, but I remember that. Then, when I was once again at my lowest, ready to let them take my very memories from me, there you were. Right when I needed you.”_

He’s thinking about the day Alice gave him back his heart – _and his freedom_ – as they enter the quaint little village.

Cottages sprawl outward from the center of town where a small field of wildflowers grow around a tranquil pond. The Endless Well, as it is known, looks like a molten disc of pure sunlight. Villagers gather in intimate groups to take their lunch on the lush grass. Others pass by in brightly colored gowns made from an array of unique materials. They are not harried or rushed, stopping to converse and point at the beautiful wares stacked neatly in weathered wooden bins under the awnings of each store. Here, the air is soft and fragrant.

Will gives it all the briefest of observations. He’s quick to note every street and alley leading out of the village and which stores have the deepest shadows. He may not care about the quality of one gown or tunic over another – except in regards to what price it might fetch him with a fence – but there’s no way he’s going into a place, even one as quiet as this one, without an escape plan.

This time his usual studious perusal and tactical planning slips, though, as his thoughts turn to that day. Everything back then had felt full of equal parts helplessness and painful possibility. A strange dichotomy when he thinks about it. There he’d been, a prisoner in the service of The Queen of Hearts and Alice had just been another enemy of the crown.

She’d risked the success of her quest for proof of Wonderland’s existence to retrieve his heart from the Queen’s vault. Restored him to himself. As she’d never had the misfortune of losing her heart to the magical manipulations of one such as the Queen, she couldn’t have truly grasped just how important of a gift she’d bestowed on him that day in the woods. But he did.

He’d been trying to kill her and still, she’d helped him. He hadn’t wanted to kill her, of course, but want had nothing to do with it when the power of The Queen of Hearts had you in its thrall. You did as you were commanded, body betraying mind.

That day everything changed. Alice had been an axis upon which his whole world had rotated, altering course like a ship caught in a strong current.

_I need your help._

Four little words and one returned heart and Will had followed Alice into the very heart of adventure and danger.

And he’ll do it again and again until there are no more adventures to be had.

He looks over at her, noting the way her face is a little brighter now, a little less taut with pain. Her attempt at distracting him helped her as much as him. She hasn’t reached for her pendant once since last night.

They turn down a large thoroughfare that ends at _The Golden Afternoon_. The inn is only two stories tall but stretches the entire length of the wide road. Double doors mark the entrance, each etched with a bouquet of blooming flowers painted in a myriad of colors now faded by years of sunlight. Baskets hang over every window, overflowing with the valley’s native grasses and vines. Already, Will can smell the inn’s many wood fires preparing for the mid-day meal. From an open window, he can hear a fiddle playing a jaunty little tune.

He pauses at the door, a hand poised over the handle. “You know, we could just camp at the edge of town.”

Alice’s lips quirk up, trying to hold back a laugh. “She’s not that bad, Will.”

“The woman force fed me Bandersnatch Soup, Alice.”

“It’s not _actually_ made of Bandersnatch.”

“That’s hardly the aspect I’m most concerned about, you know.”

Alice gives him a sympathetic look, but he knows she isn’t going to side with him against Iris. Not when it comes to eating. The woman was downright tyrannical when it came to nutrition. “It had been a while since we’d eaten a decent meal.”

“Sun crisped rubber would leave a better taste in my mouth than Bandersnatch Soup.” What he wouldn’t give for a big plate of bangers and mash right about now.

“You better hope she doesn’t overhear you!” She laughs and the sound breaks a knot loose in his chest. He feels lighter in that moment, like a stone has been lifted from the weight bearing down on him. Her eyes dance, sending him reeling and it takes all the meager self-restraint he owns to keep from brushing a hand alongside her face. At its heels, guilt floods him.

_She’ll never be yours, mate. You’ll want forever and ever._

A quick glance at the pendent around her neck curbs the desire, but nothing can truly extinguish what he feels for her. He opens the door, bowing with a mock flourish. “Well, it’s still better than the beer.”

Alice smiles and disappears into the shadowed entrance. Will follows after her, glancing towards the back door as he passes into the main hall; it stands open, allowing a chambermaid to scurry out with an armload of linens. Inside the dining area the bar already sports three chaps deep into their mugs. They’re talking loudly over the music and clapping each other enthusiastically on the back.

_Celebrating something. And that one can barely keep coin in his pocket he’s so sauced._

Will takes in the rest of the room. A large fire place made of delicately veined marble takes up most of the wall to his right. A finely crafted stand holds three pots over the flame, likely holding the soup of the day. Will sniffs, hoping it’s anything but Bandersnatch. At the far end of the room neat little rows of tables are sparsely occupied. This time of day, the weather being what it is in these parts, most of the villagers prefer to be outside.

In the furthest corner, nestled beside a stack of barrels that hold the Inn’s specialty beer, a hooded figure sits, bent over their table. He can’t make out the stranger’s face, shrouded in shadow as it is, and it’s not uncommon to cross paths with people who prefer to keep their identities to themselves – he and Alice have traveled in such a manner dozens of times – but something in the man’s posture and movements triggers Will’s instincts.

Could be nothing, but it could be a remnant of the Queen’s army. Or one of Jafar’s spies. The sorcerer was dead but his reach could still be felt throughout Wonderland. When Alice moves to the table two rows down from him, the figure turns his head to look at her. Will tenses, watching the stranger’s lingering observation.

 _No good, that one._ It takes a criminal to spot a criminal.

Instead of joining Alice at the table, he saunters over to the bar, standing right beside the drunken revelers. A portly barkeep wipes down the countertop. Will only needs a quick glance to refresh his memory. The master key hangs on a peg under the lip of the counter, just to the right of him and in front of the rowdiest of the three men.

Another hangs on a leather cord around the proprietor’s neck, but Will has no desire to attempt _that_ lift. Iris has a sixth sense when it comes to pick pockets. All those years running an inn had honed her into an eagle.

A gentle jostle to the man’s mug of beer sends the amber liquid sloshing out onto the counter top. His mates shout as it splashes onto them. Their cries bring the barkeep running to help clean up the mess. In the ensuing commotion – the man hiccuping an apology, his mates laughing as they dab off beer (they’ll be smelling like that stuff for days), and the barkeep trying to work around their tipsy efforts – Will leans into the poor sod who’s beer he’s just spilt and snakes a hand over the counter.

_Gotchya!_

And just like that he saunters away. No one gives him a second glance.

“Will Scarlet!”

He freezes, going still as an animal caught in a predator’s gaze. Alice glances up and gives him a sympathetic smile, almost as if to say, “Sorry.”

“She’s right behind me ain’t she?”

Alice nods. Will pushes the key up into a little pocket he had sewn into his leather jacket some time ago. An idea from his more lucrative and active thieving days. The key fits perfectly, leaving his hands free. He turns to face the Inn’s proprietor, praying to all the gods and luck and magic that she hadn’t just seen him steal the key.

Iris only stands five feet and four inches, but what she lacks in height she makes up for in personality. When she enters a room, she manages to make even the largest bloke feel like a mewling kitten in comparison. Her lavender hair is pulled into a tight braid that rings her head. Delicate age lines crease her stern face just at the edge of her eyes and the corner of her lips. He knows she’s older than she looks, older than even the birth of this little village.

She’s likely been alive since the dawn of time, but he wouldn’t dare ask her.

Unlike the rest of the villagers, Iris wears simple, practical clothes: leather trousers under a worn cotton tunic, at her waist is an apron covered in flour and grain – she’s been making bread again – and around her neck hangs the second master key.

“Iris! You look more beautiful than a dew drop on lemon grass,” Will gives her his cheeriest of smiles. Iris narrows her eyes.

“Save the flattery, Scarlet. ‘Sides, dew ain’t nothing pretty. It’s wet, cold, and gets the morning laundry soggy if we put it out too soon. You look terrible.” Iris isn’t one for small talk, pleasantries, or beating around the bush. She’s a woman of candid words and she’ll suffer nothing less in return. Iris glances around him to Alice. “Liddell, you’re skin and bones.”

Now Iris looks back at Will, stepping into his personal space to stab a finger into his chest. “You been letting her skip meals?”

Will gulps but doesn’t move back. “You know almost as well as I do, Iris, there’s no ‘letting’ when it comes to Alice. She does what she bloody well pleases.”

Iris snorts, the closest thing you’ll ever hear to a laugh from the woman. She pushes against Will till he moves aside and lets her pass. Tension eases in his shoulders. She hadn’t spotted his sleight of hand.

“Alice,” Iris starts, then sees the shattered charm. The stern woman goes soft, her face concerned. Alice has that effect on the woman.

_Hell, she has it on me._

“Cyrus?”

There’s the magic word. Will feels tension take up residence in his shoulders again. He shouldn’t hate that name but it’s become a knife in his heart each time he hears it. Each time he has to see the look of anguish on Alice’s face. He almost wants to snap at Iris for replacing Alice’s smile with sadness.

She shakes her head at Iris’ questioning look.

“Oh, child,” Iris cups Alice’s face, turning to face Will. “And Anastasia?”

The last time they’d been passing this way it’d been after Ana had returned to him. He recalls how light-hearted his Red Queen had been during their stay, even though they were on their way to battle an evil sorcerer. It seizes his chest in guilt to remember the wonder she felt at by his side again – at his forgiveness – while his own heart was divided.

_“It’s like, I’ve been given the whole world, Will. I won’t waste another day parted from you,” she’d said._

Days later, she’d died.

Alice’s face grows pained and it’s her who answers in a choked voice. “Jafar killed her.”

The anguish in her eyes is more than he can handle and still remain standing so he turns away. He just barely catches the look of hurt on Alice’s face. Bloody hell, they’re a mess, the pair of them. Maybe he should consider her suggestion they take a break from this endless journey.

So long as she’ll stop with him. They both need time to heal.

He knows, though, Alice won’t stop till she finds Cryus.

As though reading the very thoughts in his head, Iris purses her lips, eyeing them both for a moment before clucking her tongue. She won’t ask him further about Ana. It isn’t her way to needle where it’s painful. Instead she says, “Seems like you two could use some food and a room to rest your weary bones.”

“That would be lovely, Iris. Thank you,” Alice’s voice is thick with emotion.

As Iris passes, she turns to look up at him. There’s something akin to sympathy in her eyes. She gives his arm a squeeze then she’s gone, striding towards the kitchens, leaving him alone with Alice.

For a moment he can’t turn around and face her. Sometimes it stuns him just how much the ease between them has changed in recent days. And he knows it’s him. It growing harder to pretend he isn’t madly in love with her. That guilt over that fact isn’t eating away at him. He’s not sure how much longer he can continue to stay by her side, yearning like this, and yet the very idea of saying goodbye fills him with more fear than Jafar ever had.

When had he come to need someone so much? Ana’s betrayal had taught him that in this life you could only count on yourself. But Alice had become a beat in his heart from the moment she’d given it back to him. There was no removing her lest he dig the very organ out of his chest.

A movement in the corner of his eye pulls him from his somber thoughts. The figure in the corner is staring at Alice again. Will notes the stranger’s build, sizing up his height and any other features he can ascertain.

The hands poking out of the cloak are thin and long but masculine. They’re clean and groomed which strikes him as strange for a traveler passing through. He likely has a room where he can clean up and maintain those manicured nails.

The key practically sings in its hidden pocket, begging for him to suss the origin of their silent observer. First, he needs to figure out which room the stranger is staying in. Iris won’t offer up the information, not unless he can convince her the stranger is a danger to her regulars. But he’s not ready to alert anyone just yet.

There is a girl at the front desk where the registrar is so he makes his way to her. She’s a small thing, barely taller than the massive desk she’s standing behind.

“A room for ye, sir?” She looks up at him with doe brown eyes. Her cotton candy hair is tucked up under the frilly bonnet Iris makes the staff wear.

“Afternoon, darling. Two rooms please.” He turns so he’s leaning against the counter with his side, trying to appear like he isn’t interested in the thick registrar she’s opening. The writing inside is neat and legible, even from where he stands; Iris would expect nothing less. He gives her his name and Alice’s, making a mental note of the names just above where she writes his.

They’re not names he recognizes from his time in the Queen’s army but that doesn’t rule it out. And there’s no way, without further investigation, to tell if he’s part of Jafar’s scattered network of spies.

Will looks back at Alice, who’s watching him with shrewd eyes. She might not have seen him snag the key but she knows he’s up to something. He flashes her a wolfish smile to which she offers a weak one in return. Normally she’d have rolled her eyes at his cheeky grin.

That’s how far she’s withdrawn.

Things are wrong and he needs to find a way to bring them back to right. Even if that means watching her run into the arms of her genie. He’s let her down once already, he won’t do it again.

_Hold on, Alice. Don’t lose faith in me._

He returns to the table once the girl hands him their room keys. The air around Alice is solemn but her face is softer, less strained. A waiter brings them a steaming pile of meats and cheeses in a bowl then they’re finally alone again.

After long seconds of silence Alice’s eyes get a faraway look in them. She reaches for the pennant. “Did I ever tell you about my first night in Bethlem?”

He’s not expecting this question, can only shake his head no. Bethlem is a haunted place that resides in his nightmares as much as hers. He doesn’t ask about it, even to feed his curiosity. What he saw of the place when he rescued her was enough to last him a lifetime. She hardly speaks of her time there though he’s seen its mark upon her often.

She went in as one Alice and came out another.

Would Cyrus be able to handle that? They hadn’t had but seconds together before Jafar had separated them again.

 _Well, if he can’t, he bloody well doesn’t deserve her_.

“My father found me in the garden after The Red…after Ana…after I thought Cryus died.” She’s struggling to tell him something so he leans in, resting his elbows on the table. “When I wouldn’t stop raving about Wonderland, he brought me to Bethlem and left me there. He just…left me there.”

Will feels a surge of renewed anger towards Mr. Liddell.

“They stripped me out of my dress, afraid I might try to harm myself with it and sedated me with pills, even restrained me with leather straps. My mind was such a fog of grief and fear I don’t remember half of what I said or did. They told me I wouldn’t stop calling for Cryus. It was cold in the room they gave me-”

He vividly remembers the small, dark room he’d found her in.

“-and I couldn’t seem to focus on a single other detail. Sleep was elusive, until,” she stops here, drawing in a breath. The glaze of nostalgia leaves her eyes as she raises them to his. “I dreamed of you and that first night in the woods.”

He recalls it like it was yesterday.

“In my dream you told me stories about your life with Robin Hood as we lay under the stars. The warmth of the fire…it was as though I could feel it even in that cold, cold place. I don’t remember much about my first night in Bethlem, but I remember that. Then, when I was once again at my lowest, ready to let them take my very memories from me, there you were. Right when I needed you.”

She reaches out and takes his hand. The contact is warm and yet it still sends a shiver through him. Her touch has always been electrifying. He lets himself curl his fingers around her palm. The pads of her fingers are calloused from wielding a sword but the top of her hand is soft.

“Will…” A cloud passes over her face, darkening it. She’s slipping into her shell again, withdrawing into her pain.

He tightens his grip. “Stay with me Alice. Don’t fade away.”

This focuses her, brings her back into the present. She gives him a small smile which falters and tears begin to stream down her cheeks. “I am so sorry Will. So sorry. It’s all my fault and there is nothing I can do to ever make it right. Ana is gone and I’m the reason. I know the nature of nightmares…they stay with us forever it seems. Places, things, events we wish we could unknow, unsee, undo…and now you, you-” she dissolves into quiet sobs, casting her eyes down.

Will grabs at her other hand, pulling it away from the pendant she’s begun to rub like a genie bottle like it might grant her a wish. “Alice, Alice, look at me.”

She raises her head. Her eyes are red and blurred with tears.

How can he articulate what he feels? He’s never been good when comes to matters of the heart. If he had he might have never lost Ana in the first place. He can’t even seem to arrange his own jumbled emotions into any semblance of order.

Like Alice, Will had gone into Wonderland as one man and returned as another.

He feels as though he betrays Ana’s memory by mourning her so quickly. He’d had so little time with her after she’d switched sides. There hadn’t been time to fall in love with her again. He’d cared. _Bloody hell_ , had he cared for Ana. Her death had been painful beyond belief but it hadn’t shattered his world like he once thought it would.

“Her death is no one’s fault but Jafar’s, Alice.” He lets one of her hands go when she tries to look away. A gentle thumb and forefinger on her chin turns her face back towards him. “You killed him Alice, you avenged her and she wouldn’t want you blaming yourself for what happened.”

“Your nightmare,” she starts.

He sucks in a breath. He cannot stand lying to her any more but she’s not ready. Not ready to hear what truly terrifies him now: a history that never came to pass, a future that can never be, the truth of his heart.

“Is just that, a nightmare.” Maybe he’ll tell her tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. They both need a good night’s sleep.

 _After a little investigation_ , the key reminds him from its pocket. He doesn’t spare a glance for the stranger, he’s focused entirely on Alice, but he’s aware of eyes watching them converse. It rankles him to have someone observe the intimacy of their conversation but Alice doesn’t seem to care who sees her crying.

Because she’s not afraid of being vulnerable. She finds strength in her heart, in how she feels.

 _Unlike someone_ , he thinks. Damned inconvenient it was, having a heart sometimes.

“Thank you,” Alice says softly. “You pulled me from the darkness when everyone else had left me there. You deserve so much more than life has given you, Will.”

He wishes she’d call him Knave. It always followed a bold statement or a sarcastic counter-point and he needs to see her strong. Because it’s breaking him to see her so lost.

There don’t seem to be words to say. Lately, he’s got a knack for silence when it appears the opposite is needed; Alice doesn’t seem to mind, though. So he lowers his hand from her face to clasp hers again. They sit like that for a time, quiet and solemn. The crowd shifts around them, the afternoon crowd coming and going. Even Iris leaves them be.

Eventually the minstrel begins a slow ballad, luring in the evening rush. Still, they sit, in comfortable silence, content to just be, till finally the fire burns low in the pit and only drunk stragglers are left at the bar. Alice begins to drift off to sleep, her head resting against one arm, hands still in his.

She finally looks peaceful, hair spilling over her shoulders across the table.

Will considers calling Iris over to bring one of the cooks to carry her up to bed so he can spy on the stranger – who is no longer at his table – but instead he gathers Alice up in his arms and carries her up to her room. He stays beside her bed, back propped up against the headboard, listening to her breathe for a time trying to decide if he should make his way to his own bed or find the room of the stranger.

He’s loathe to leave her but the stranger’s presence won’t let his mind rest. With a gentle brush across her brow he rises and sets about the business of a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran longer than I thought it would! 
> 
> Up next, Alice prepares for her mountain journey and saying goodbye to Will.


	4. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He pulls a piece of torn fabric from his pocket. The material is a rich red with gold thread stitching. Will opens the cloth fully till the sun gleams on the embroidered emblem of a serpent._  
>     
> Her heart begins to race and she fights panic. He was dead. Dead.
> 
> _“Alice…” Will starts, brows drawn tight. He’s drawing the same conclusions._
> 
> _“Where did you get that?” She reaches for it, half expecting it to pop like a bubble into nothingness. A figment of a nightmare, there and gone again. But soft crush velvet tickles her finger tips instead. It’s very real._

Will finds her staring up at the mountains the next morning.

When she’d lived – no, that wasn’t the right word, no one _lived_ in that place. When she’d _existed_ in Bethlem, she’d conjured an image of rocky peaks rising up to encircle her heart, protecting it from everything: pain, fear, loss, even joy.

During her waking hours, she wouldn’t allow herself to think of Cyrus, though her dreams replayed his fall ceaselessly. At night, not even the mountains erected around her heart could stop that image from haunting her. And now…

 _That’s all that separates us_.

It seems fitting that a mountain range lies between her and Cyrus, a full circle return to the make believe mountain she’d once put between them in order to survive Bethlem.

“Alice, we need to talk.” Will sounds concerned.

She turns, noticing how little sleep he’s had, again. His eyes are dark, shadowed from fatigue, clothes rumpled. When she woke this morning it’d been with a contented sigh, her usual dreams silent, allowing her the first night of restful sleep she’s had in weeks. Will’s scent had greeted her, letting her know he’d stayed with her for a time before leaving.

The only guess she can make for his current state is _the dream_. The one that keeps him up most nights since Ana’s death. She feels a pang of guilt. He might not blame her for The Red Queen’s death, but she hasn’t forgiven herself.

Would she ever? Was she destined to live with guilt like a ghost in her house, forever tormenting her?

“What’s wrong?” she asks, pushing phantoms from her mind.

He pulls a piece of torn fabric from his pocket. The material is a rich red with gold thread stitching.  Will opens the cloth fully till the sun gleams on the embroidered emblem of a serpent.

Her heart begins to race and she fights panic. He was dead. _Dead._

“Alice…” Will starts, brows drawn tight. He’s drawing the same conclusions.

“Where did you get that?” She reaches for it, half expecting it to pop like a bubble into nothingness. A figment of a nightmare, there and gone again. But soft crush velvet tickles her finger tips instead. It’s very real.

“The room of someone staying at the inn.”

So that’s what he’d been up to yesterday.

“You broke into someone’s room?”

He gives her a knowing look and she thinks to herself it isn’t _really_ a surprise at this point.  Besides, she’s more concerned about what he found than how he found it, if she’s honest. The lines between right and wrong have blurred considerably since emerging from Bethlem, especially in regards to their safety.

“It could mean anything…” She’s not convinced, even by her own words. The serpent meant one thing and one thing only in Wonderland.

_Jafar._

“One of his spies?” she continues. They’d once believed the Red Queen was Jafar’s only ally, but even he hadn’t fully trusted Anastasia when it came to his master plan. In fact, he’d infiltrated Wonderland with dozens of secret operatives that had spread out among the populace, searching for Alice and Cyrus’ bottle in case Ana failed him.

And she had, choosing, in the end, to side with them – _with Will_ – against him.

Word might not have traveled far and wide enough to inform them their leader was dead. There was no telling what one of them might do in order to carry out their mission.

“Possibly. There’s something else,” Will pauses, taking in a ragged breath. He runs his fingers through his hair. It’s grown longer, she realizes. A little shaggy at the top. “Whoever this belongs to, he seemed interested in you, Alice.”

He describes what he saw last night. She’d felt the prickle of eyes on her but hadn’t the energy or heart to find its source. Taking the fabric from Will, Alice contemplates the possibilities. They all seem to point to danger. A serpent waited in the tall grass. They needed to tread carefully.

She looks at the mountains again.

_All that divides us._

She looks back at Will.

_No. That’s not all that divides us._

There were mountains of another kind growing between her and Cyrus. Still, she cannot not bring herself to lead an enemy right to him, even as confusing as her feelings are at the moment. Jafar was gone but his plan remained a threat. She needed to find Cyrus and set him free, once and for all.

After everything, she owes him that.

“We can’t lead them to Cyrus,” she says, speaking her thoughts aloud. She slips the scrap into a pocket in her skirt.

Will nods in agreement. Before, such quick acceptance from him would have told her something was wrong. She’d have questioned what his motives were for giving in so easily. War with Jafar had done more for the bond between them than anything. She trusts him without question. And though she feels anything but worthy of such a gift, Alice is thankful for it.

_So thankful you plan to repay him by abandoning him here._

She pushes the thought from her head, curbing the bite of misery she feels at the prospect. It’ll be for the best. It will _._

_You don’t believe that._

She meets Will’s eyes and asks, “What should we do?”

“Watch him. Observe what he does. Maybe we can lure him into giving up something.”

“How are we going to observe _him_ if he’s watching us?”

Will gives her a small half smile that tugs on her heart. She resists the urge to reach up and grab at her chest where an ache has taken up residence.

“You, Alice. He’s watching you. So _I’ll_ be watching him. Doing what I do best.” The easy smile falls from his face. “I promise, whoever this is, I won’t let them harm you or Cyrus.”

 _But what about you, Knave?_ _Who stands at your back when you’re watching mine?_

“How do you want to do this?” It’s second nature to reach for her sword but she defers to him in matters of stealth and cunning. She’s not without her wits, but Will is intimately familiar with the shadows.

Which was probably why the shadows in her own heart seemed to reach out to him, responding in ways they never had to Cyrus.

“You go about the day, get our supplies. Leave the rest to me.”

She nods, itching to arm herself. But someone strolling through the market, going about their day, isn’t likely to carry an exposed blade, so instead she grabs the basket Iris gave her that morning for shopping. It chaffs, not being able to face this threat head on, but she knows they must tread carefully.

Will gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze and the exhaustion on his face reminds her just how little sleep her thief is running on.

It doesn’t need saying, but she says it anyways. “Be careful, Knave.”

He winks at her. “You know me Alice, I’ll always find a way to avoid taking a hit.”

His words linger in her mind long after he leaves her and she can’t help hearing another meaning buried deep under their playful tone.

 

***

 

She’s halfway through the market when she senses a presence behind her. The urge to turn and face her enemy is overwhelming but she knows somewhere, close, the Knave follows her shadow. So, she turns to a display of fresh fruits and vegetables. They’re an array of bright colors and robust, far larger than she ever saw in England.

Picking up a few, she slants her eyes slightly to the right, then to the left. She can’t resist looking.

Nothing.

But she knows something it there. Years of living under careful watch has honed a kind of sixth sense in her for leering gazes and scrutiny.

 _You missed it last night,_ she admonishes herself _._

How easily her fatigue, her hurt, her sullen carelessness might cost them everything.

_Get your head in the game, Alice._

She picks up a plump apple next, red as a ruby. In the background of her internal thoughts she hears the merchant urge her to buy, listing all the reasons his produce is the best in the valley. Fresh fruit like this will be scarce in the mountain ranges but a pack can grow heavy under such a bounty.

Considering, she pays for two apples and sets them in her basket.

A dark movement to her left draws her attention. She whips her head around before she can stop herself; instincts are hard to override. At the corner of her peripheral she spies the flutter of a deep brown cloak. She spins, dropping the dehydrated jerky she’d picked up.

Without a thought, she pulls a slim knife from a small sheath on her wrist. A gift from Will when they’d last passed through this way.

_“You’re the hit they never see coming,” he’d said._

It’s thin and wickedly sharp and cool in her palm; already she feels better.

Except, there’s no one. Alice turns in a full circle, but the cloak, and its owner, are gone.

Then, again, at the corner of her eye – a billowing edge of a cloak. She turns once more, apples rolling around in her basket. This time she spies her target slipping down an alleyway to her right. In her head she can almost hear Will’s voice.

_Don’t you dare, Alice._

She darts after the hooded figure. Where ever her thief may be, he’s likely groaning at her, adapting his plan to her brash actions. As she passes a familiar face – the merchant she bought the apples from – she stops long enough to kindly ask him to hold her groceries.

Wide-eyed, he nods and she’s off again just as the figure takes a sharp turn to the left around the back of the store. Arms free, Alice picks up the pace and rounds the bend in time to see him cut around another building. Glancing to her right, she makes a calculation and takes off down the far side of the building, parallel to his direction.

The alley opens up into the street one lane over and she pivots on the ball of her foot, racing down the walkway to her left. As the figure rounds the corner, head turned back – likely looking for her at his back – she barrels into him, knocking him to the ground with an ‘oomph’.

They become a whirlwind of cloak and hair. Hers, his. Their limbs tangle as she tries to pull back his hood and pin him to the ground, but he’s strong for such a thin man. His wiry frame twists beneath her, desperately trying to pull himself out from under her weight.

An errant hand smacks her in the temple and she gasps, stunned for long enough he slips out from under her. Quickly, she brings her blade down on the edge of his cloak, stopping his frantic crawl. The fabric begins to tear. He kicks out, sandaled foot connecting with her face. Alice tastes blood.

A shadow falls from the awning over them.

“Alice!” Will shouts, landing beside her.

“Grab him!”

Will pulls the struggling man to his feet, folding his arms behind him to secure him. Chest rising and falling like a boat on stormy waves, Alice kneels. She keeps her knife unsheathed, just in case.

Standing, she pulls back his hood. The man is younger than she’d imagined, but with an age to his black eyes that struck her. There is a familiarity to his features that tugs on her memory but she cannot place those almond eyes and hollow cheeks. His jaw is clenched tight, a sharp line marked by a clipped beard. His dark hair falls in waves around his shoulders, tussled and wild thanks to their struggle.

“Who are you?” Alice demands. She doesn’t raise the blade but his eyes dart to her hand. He lifts his chin, watching her with narrow eyes.

“The lass asked you a question, mate.” Will shakes him.

She pulls the embroidered strip of cloth from her pocket, spreading it open before him. The man’s eyes go wide for a moment and he glances back at Will. He knows who took the emblem from him.

“Are you Jafar’s man?” She prods, fearing the answer but ready to strike.

The man’s eyes swing back at her, quickly, and she notes a flash of something in his eyes. _Hatred_.

“Careful child, names have power,” he says, accent thick. He’s definitely from Agrabah.

“What power can a dead man have?” she asks, even though she knows, _intimately_ , just how much power a dead man can wield.

At this, the man stops his struggle, looking at her now with wide eyes. “So it _was_ you. I sensed…”

He falls silent, looking deep into her eyes. Alice wants to look away, wants to break his gaze, which seems to be burrowing into her very soul. She feels the blade teeter in her loose grip. It clatters on the ground but she can’t seem to tear herself away from his gaze to retrieve it.

Suddenly, she’s no longer standing on a walkway outside a small village shop, she’s watching Jafar kill Ana, watching Will crumble to his knees to catch her. She can hear a voice shouting her name. _Cyrus._ Then Will points and, this time, she finds she can turn.

Behind her, Jafar pulls the stopper from the bottle, calling Cyrus back into his prison, her name on his lips. Fear nearly freezes her into place. But she remembers what happens next.

_You’re the hit they never see coming._

Alice draws her sword and charges Jafar. His smug face looms at her over the bottle holding her lover. He raises his hand to strike at her, aiming for her heart. Time slows and she sees everything unfold before her with a clarity only retrospect can give her.

The bolt of raw magic leaves Jafar’s hands, wild and unpredictable without his focusing staff, but Alice slides forward onto her knees. Even know, she remembers the tear in her tights, the pain and blood of the stone scraping against her skin, but it puts her under the bolt and at his feet before he realizes his strike did nothing. Fast as lightning, deft as a hummingbird, she drives the blade up into him.

He stands still for a moment, eyes wide in shock. A spark of erratic magic arcs from his fingers into the charm around her neck. It burns her, making her scream but she holds the knife there till the blood coats her hands. Then he falls. Like Cyrus once had. Like Ana. He topples to the ground.

Shock passes from Jafar’s face, turning into something feral. He clutches the bottle and smiles at her, all teeth and intent. His lips move, softly casting his final spell. It takes her a second to reach for it, realization dawning on her. Her fingers brush the edge of the bottle just as the magic carries the bottle away from her.

Then Jafar dies, laughter on his last breath and she’s left broken once again.

Ice threads through her veins and she feels a scream rising in her throat. She doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want to remember her failure. Behind her, she hears Will’s choked voice.

“Alice.”

A shadow flits pass her mind’s eye, dark and foreboding. Then…

“Alice!”

She’s back on the walkway, and there’s the sound of someone screaming. It takes her a moment to realize it’s coming from her.

The man breaks from Will’s grip, spinning in a flurry of black hair and fabric. He strikes upward with his palm, shoving Will’s head back. Alice bends down to pick up her knife but the man turns to face her, faster than she’s seen anyone move. He extends his hand and suddenly she cannot move. Inches from the blade, her hand stops. With a simple gesture he forces her to stand again, commanding her body like a puppeteer.

She’s seen this power before.

 _Jafar!_ Her mind screams.

But the man holding her in place with his will looks nothing like the man she killed.

“I’ll have another story from you, Alice.” _Names have power._ And now he has hers. He burrows into her gaze, forcing her to hold his eyes with her own. He’d pulled the memory of Jafar’s death from her. What memory did he reach for now?

A misty haze swirls before her vision and she’s plummeting down, down, down. Like the first time she fell into the rabbit’s hole.

The ground rushes towards her, a soft name drifting towards her on a twisting wind that pulls at her hair.

 _Amara_.

Before she lands, her momentum halts so suddenly the air rushes out of her lungs. Her limbs flail forward, pulling at their sockets. Hair whips her face till it stings, and she hangs there, suspended. Something tugs on her, straining her joints, but she will budge no further.

Once again, she’s on the walkway, returned to the present. Will strikes the man across the back, breaking loose his mental hold on Alice. She begins to fall, body still sluggish and beyond her control, and she watches, helpless – always so helpless – as Will battles a choice.

Let her fall and fight him or catch her and let him go.

The cloak slips from Will’s fingertips as he rushes forwards, skidding towards her on his knees. The man darts away with a last look at Alice. _We’re not done_ , his eyes promise.

Will catches her before she hits the ground, wrapping his arms around her to soften the blow. Slowly she regains the use of her body, then she’s clutching at Will’s jacket, shuddering. The shivers race through her till she’s nearly shaken apart by the convulsions.

“I’ve got you,” Will whispers, his lips against the crown of her head.

When the shudders stop enough that she can sit, she scans the growing crowd for any sign of the stranger. He’s gone, but Alice knows he will be back.

Fingers still curled into Will’s leather jacket she manages to say, “He read my memories.”

“Bloody hell.” Will releases a slow breath, understanding better than most how such an intrusion would feel. He’d been a victim of the Jabberwocky once. “Are you okay?”

Alice shakes her head. She was very much _not_ okay. The touch on her mind hadn’t been cruel but neither had it been kind. Ripping at the fabric of her memories, he’d plucked images from her mind she’s tried hard to forget these last few weeks. Now the wounds lay fresh and open, bleeding all over her once again.

_Failure._

Then she recalls the name just before Will broke the stranger’s grip on her. She looks up at Will. “He wanted to know what happened to Amara.”

They stare at each other for a long time before Will clears his throat. “Only two people know what happened to her and one of them is dead. That leaves…”

Alice looks up at the mountains just over the rooftops of the village, feeling as though the hands of fate were once again tightening around her. Was life an endless series of circles, forever bisecting and crossing over each other? She sighs, suddenly exhausted and soul weary. “Cyrus.”


	5. A Story for a Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We can’t let him get to Cyrus,” Alice says, pulling him from the mire of the past._
> 
> Careful, Knave. You’ll get lost navigating those treacherous paths. _The voice has a hint of The Red Queen. Sometimes it’s her voice he’ll hear in his head, chiding him. Sometimes he hears Ana, the hopeful girl he loved so long ago. But, always, it’s Alice’s voice that keeps him from stumbling._
> 
> _He rises, joining her, his legs stable beneath him. “We won’t.”_

Alice wears a look he’s seen often. Her narrow, freckled face is closed down tight; a warrior in meditation before a battle. There is much his companion wears on the sleeve of her shirt when it comes to how she’s feeling, but when she plans, when she reaches _determined_ and _resolute_ , her face becomes a wall.

At this moment, behind shuttered eyes and set lips, she’s making a decision, and he feels his pulse quicken, because he’s seen what she’s capable of when that look comes over her.

_Watch out, Wonderland._

It invigorates him, knowing the wheels are turning in that brain of hers. Once he might have – _had_ – groaned because that look usually meant trouble rode towards them on swift hooves. But she’d proved on more than one occasion how capable she was and now…he wants in. “What are you thinking?”

She looks at him, startled, as if she forgot he was there with her on the walkway, arms still wrapped around her. Sadness filters through the steel in her eyes and he’s struck by how much older she’s grown. Not just in body, but in spirit. Lines mark her face where once her skin was unblemished. And there aren’t shoulders strong enough to help lift the weight he sees in her eyes.

Alice opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it with a snap. She stands, dusting off her leggings and skirt with quick flicks of her hand. He recognizes the knife on the ground beside her as she bends to pick it up. Quick as a flash she slides it into a sheath at her wrist, right over the pulse beat there.

Something in him tightens and goes soft at the same moment. He doesn’t trust himself to stand just yet, sure his legs will give out and send him toppling into the street in front of curious eyes.

Damn, but this woman...

Could she know what it means to him? Seeing something he’d given her held in such reverence.

Somewhere in her boot is a knife Cyrus had given her but she’d gone for the one at her wrist. The wickedly devastating weapon he’d picked – commissioned, actually – specifically for her from the village’s blacksmith. Custom, one-of-a-kind…just like her.

“Love cuts you like a finely crafted blade, you know what it truly means to bleed for someone,” the Jabberwocky had observed about him once from the other side of a prison cell door.

He’d thought she’d been talking about Anastasia.

Had the Jabberwocky been speaking of Alice the whole time? Even when she’d plunged into his head and pulled his worst fear from the darkest reaches of his mind? She’d been careful with her words, never speaking a name out loud, leaving Jafar to draw his own conclusions.

Will thinks back on what Jafar’s last ally had said to him, just before betraying the sorcerer. Alice had stolen back the vorpal blade Jafar used to control her, replacing it with a replica forged with the help of a wish, and returned the real dagger to the Jabberwocky, setting her free.

_“Even an honest man can trick himself into believing he doesn’t fear losing what isn’t his.”_

The Jabberwocky had waited until the final battle to abandon the fight, leaving Jafar staffless and without an ally in sight. But not before pointing towards Will and saying, “He fears losing the woman he loves.”  Then she’d dipped her head towards Alice, the slightest of movements, acknowledging the debt was now paid and left them to face a mad sorcerer.

Shock pierces Will through to his core as it all falls into place. The Jabberwocky had done more than betray Jafar to repay the debt she felt she owed Alice. She’d purposefully abstracted the truth of Will’s worst fears to keep Jafar from targeting Alice first.

He’s crushed in that moment by the knowledge the Jabberwocky had sacrificed Ana to save Alice.

_That first bolt would have been for her and as surely as it had killed Ana, Alice would have fallen._

“We can’t let him get to Cyrus,” Alice says, pulling him from the mire of the past.

 _Careful, Knave. You’ll get lost navigating those treacherous paths._ The voice has a hint of The Red Queen. Sometimes it’s her voice he’ll hear in his head, chiding him. Sometimes he hears Ana, the hopeful girl he loved so long ago. But, always, it’s Alice’s voice that keeps him from stumbling.

He rises, joining her, his legs stable beneath him. “We won’t.”

She gives him a tight nod, her jaw set with determination. Whatever conclusion she came to earlier, she’s keeping it to herself. Will feels the chasm stretching between them in that moment. How can he pull them close again when she won’t even share her thoughts with him?

They shop for the remainder of their supplies together, side by side and silent. He spies the two red apples she retrieved from the merchant who’d held her basket. She picks out provisions with one eye on the street, endlessly scanning the crowds for a brown cloak. Where ever the stranger fled, he does not make his presence known a second time.

Will’s positive the man has already cleared his room of any trace he was ever there. But he doesn’t mention that to Alice. She would set off for the mountains this instant if she thought the stranger was already on his way towards Cyrus and Will knows…they both need a good night’s sleep before attempting the pass.

The sun stretches shadows into long spindly points when they finally finish and make their way back to The Golden Afternoon. Iris already has bowls set aside for them at a table near the fire. On their way up upstairs to pack their supplies, Will stops at the door to the stranger’s room. It’s open, the room beyond empty.

They eat in a stiff silence. Alice’s eyes are focused on something far away as she sips at the hearty soup. Will considers something sarcastic to break the tension. It’s a tactic that’s always served him well when he doesn’t know what to say or do, but somehow it seems wrong to crack whatever shell Alice has pulled around herself.

Will watches her for a moment, while her face is turned away from him. His mind begins to drift, mesmerized by the sound of the crackling fire and how the firelight dances across her face, deepening the shadows in her eyes. Her hair, messy from the earlier tussle, gleams a warm golden brown and he thinks on the second time Alice gave him back his heart.

She’d traveled to Storybrooke to retrieve it, to a place out of her own time, even her own country, and brought him back to himself. _Again_. Returned every emotion he’d tried to bury behind a wall. The ones withering, and the ones growing.

“Seems I’m destined to always find your heart, Knave,” she’d said. Found and lost in the same moment, because he’d realized then, with a painful clarity, she’d always hold it in some form or fashion. _Destined._

His eyes refocus to find Alice looking at him. He opens his mouth to speak, determined to break this damn silence. She beats him to it.

“I’m sorry I broke from the plan and chased after him.”

It isn’t what he expects but he’s glad she’s speaking to him again. “Well you wouldn’t be the Alice I know if you didn’t do at least one rash thing a day.”

Her faces falls and she nods. “Yes, I do tend to bring trouble down upon us, don’t I?”

Will straightens in his chair. “Keeps me on my toes. Though a thief tends to favor the approach that doesn’t put him in direct line with someone’s fist.”

Her eyes shift around the room. Scanning for the cloaked man? Whatever he’d done to her on the street earlier has shaken her badly. The last time he’d seen her so skittish had been in the bowels of Bethlem. He’s reminded of the dream suddenly and panic nearly freezes him.

He can’t quiet name it but he feels something dreadful is about to happen. Can feel it deep in his bones, itching at his instincts. Will reaches for Alice, needing to confirm she’s there in front of him _, real_. Her skin is warm from the nearby fire, solid and reassuring. The touch draws her eyes to his, anchoring him in the present.

Anchoring _her_ as well. The glaze of fear and anxiety loses its hold on her face.

“We should get some sleep,” she says after a time. There’s more she wants to say but won’t. And he’s never been one to press her so he nods but still he holds onto her and she doesn’t move to stand just yet.

Finally, she rises and pulls her hand from his, slowly, till only her fingertips curl around his, lingering for a brief moment. Then she’s gone and up the stairs and her absence leaves him cold and empty despite the roaring fire.

 

***

 

That night he dreams of Alice.

He’s standing in the misty Tulgy Woods when he spies her form slip between the trees, a pale wisp in a flowing cloak made of starlight. Will calls to her but she darts away, beckoning him to give chase.

The woods are bathed in silver and shadow, and from the deep hollows yellow and gold eyes stare back at him. Something prowls at the edge of the light, slinking after Alice. Will takes off after her but every step feels like his legs are trudging through marshmallow. In the distance he hears Alice call his name in a sing-song voice.

Deeper into the woods he goes but each time Alice slips further away.

Just as he reaches for the edge of her cloak a figure steps from the trees and raises a hand, locking him in place. Will calls after Alice but she floats away.

“I’ll have a story from you, Knave,” the figure says.

Then he’s plunging down a dark hole, plummeting down, down, down. He frantically tries to reach for anything to stop his fall but there’s nothing to grab onto, just air and darkness.

Then, as abruptly as he fell, he jerks to a stop. The motion squeezes the air out of his lungs. It comes back in shuddering gasps and on a cold wind he hears a name.

_Amara._

Will drops again, landing on the damp pine needles of the forest floor. The figure stands before him, hand lowered. Once again Will has control over his limbs but Alice is nowhere to be seen.

“Not even you,” the figure whispers, then turns on a heel and begins to bleed into the background. He stops short and turns back to Will. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Will asks slowly.

The figure stands perfectly still, so still Will’s unsure he’s still there. Then, “A whisper of a memory. Something you’re trying to hide.”

Will frowns. “Me, mate? I’m an open book.”

The figure raises his hand once again, locking Will in place. He struggles against the confines of whatever magic holds him tight, trying to tell himself it’s just a dream.

“It’s there…what I seek…but you guard it,” the voice hisses.

A cold sensation creeps into Will’s skull, like fingers invading his mind. It’s similar to the touch of the Jabberwocky but slippery somehow. Like a serpent slithering through his inner most thoughts. Not even when The Queen of Heart held sway over his body had he felt an invasion like this. Sweat starts to form on his brow as he fights the figure’s prying.

“Where is she?” he shouts, digging in so deep it makes Will cry out.

He thrashes but his limbs hold their position, under the control of someone else, once again. He focouses all his concentration into withholding what this man seeks, guarding it for as long as he can. The cold deepens and something snaps free within him.

Then he’s rolling, falling, and landing on the floor of his room. The dream dissipates but his chest is pounding. He lays there on the ground for a moment, willing his breathing into some semblance of normalcy. Between the rush of blood in his ears and the sounds from the dining hall down below he hears the slightest rustle of fabric brushing the floor.

There’s someone – or s _omething_ – in the room with him.

“Who’s Cyrus?” a voice asks from the darkness.

Will freezes, recognizing the voice as belonging to the stranger. It takes him a moment to realize he’s pulled just what he wanted from Will’s memories.

“My dear old mum.” Will says, trying to buy time, to come up with a plan. Alice is down the hall from him. If he can lead the stranger away…

A force pulls him upright off the floor, raising him till his toes barely touch the ground.

“Someone taught you how to shield your mind,” the voice says. Was that a hint of admiration?

_Spend enough time as someone’s puppet, you learn to control what you can._

“Mum always said I was special.”

In the dark a match strike sparks flame and illuminates the face of the stranger. He lights the candles on the small desk to the side of the bed, spreading pale yellow light through the room. Then he straightens and looks back at Will.

“Your friend is gone. Where did she go?”

Alice was gone? Perhaps she was out back practicing her sword moves as she sometimes did when she couldn’t sleep.

“Well, given the number you did on her earlier, I’d say seeing you is low on her priority list.”

“She’s in danger.”

“That’s a bit obvious, don’t you think?” Will gave the man a pointed look.  He seems to consider this and releases his magical hold on Will’s body. He slumps to the ground, thankful to have use of his limbs once again.

Will backs up till the whole of the room lies between them. The man doesn’t move to attack, simply watches him with dark eyes. The look is pensive and strangely familiar. Where had Will seen that before?

“You believe I am the danger to her,” the stranger says.

“Kind of hard not to, what with the memory-ripping thingie and the puppeteering.” Will rubs the back of his neck, wondering if he moves to the window he might spot Alice in the yard below. Warn her somehow.

“It’s true, I seek something from her and I _am_ dangerous. But not to you. Not to her. If she will tell me what I need to know.”

“And just what is it you wish to know?” Will decides against giving this man any hint to Alice’s potential whereabouts.

The man looks to the window and Will feels a momentary jolt of fear, but he’s staring up at the moon. He sighs and it’s the most human sound Will’s ever heard. There’s weight and longing in that sound, longing he can relate to. “I’m searching for Amara.”

“What do you want with the sorceress?”

Something in Will’s tone brings the man’s face snapping back to him, full of hard lines and gritted teeth. “Watch how you speak of her, Knave.”

Of all the things this man pulled from Will’s head, _Knave_ is his least favorite. Only Alice managed to make it sound less like an insult and more like a noble title, even if she did use it when she was frustrated with him.

Will raises his hands. “Look, in my limited experience anyone searching for her doesn’t have good intentions.” He’s thinking of Jafar and his staff. He’s thinking of how horrifying it would be, trapped in such an existence. Even his time as a genie hadn’t been as confining as Amara’s situation.

At this the man’s eyes narrow, then his face falls, losing all pretense of anger and indignation. He looks years older suddenly, slumped under an unseen weight. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Will’s gaze slips from the man to the door, then back again. He thinks of bolting for the relative safety of the lingering night crowd in the bar below, but something holds him in place.

Perhaps it’s a terrible sense of curiosity – courtesy of his time spent with Alice, who was always too curious for her own good – or perhaps it’s a kinship to that haggard look the man wears. So he stays, even though his better judgement screams to run, find Alice, and make for the mountains.

“A tale then, in exchange for the one I took from your friend. My name is Aayushmaan. I’m a grand sorcerer distantly connected by blood to the Sultan of Agrabah. I believe in this world you might call me a noble, of a sort. No direct line to the throne but I’ve enough royal blood I lived a wealthy and privileged life. With that privilege came certain expectations about the continuation of my lineage.”

An ache squeezes Will’s heart as Ana and the king who broke convention to marry a commoner flash through his mind. “An arranged marriage, I take it.”

Aayushmaan nods. “Love was a luxury afforded the common. I’d known my whole life I was to marry the daughter of one of the desert tribe’s chieftains, solidifying their alliance with Agrabah. I accepted it without question, ready to do my duty. Her name slips my memory, after all these years.” His voice goes soft, eyes glazing over with the haze of time past. “So many years.”

Then he’s back in the present with a shake of his head, dark hair sliding over his shoulders with the motion. “Then I met Amara and suddenly…”

Will’s eyes drift to the window, to the moonlight streaming over the sill like spilt milk. “Your whole world changed.”

Their eyes connect in the following silence. Aayushmaan nods and an understanding opens between the two of them.

“She worked for the local apothecary, mixing potions and herbal remedies. I rarely ventured to that part of the city. We had servants for that. But the birth of the Sultan’s son meant we were expected to house a dozen diplomatic guests, all arriving to pay homage to the new heir. The servants were busy preparing rooms and cooking food so my mother sent me to pick up her order.

“My first interaction with her did not go well, though.” At this Aayushmaan laughs. Its familiarity strikes Will. He’s heard that laugh somewhere before. “I was a pompous ass, and she…well, she put me right in my place.”

Will thinks of the first time he crossed paths with Alice. It hadn’t gone well either, the meeting of a supposed murder and the heartless thief sent to capture her. He’s filled with the need to see her suddenly but he stays, unwilling to break the flow of Aayushmaan’s story. Besides, the bloke hardly feels like a threat anymore. In fact, under other circumstances, the two might have even shared a beer and told each other their heartbreaking tales of love.

“Even then, she was full of life. And I fell in love with her. But that love was forbidden to me. A luxury I could not afford without dire consequences. Still…I could not keep myself away from her. We met in secret for months. I began to sense the magic blooming within her and taught her what I knew, giving her the same formal training I’d received.”

“And then she taught Jafar.” Will can’t help interjecting, a bitter taste on his tongue.

Aayushmaan’s face darkens. “He corrupted what I taught her.”

“You carry the symbol of the serpent on your cloak. _Jafar’s_ symbol.” He knows he’s playing with fire, baiting the sorcerer like this, but he wants answers.

“The serpent was _never_ Jafar’s!” Aayushmaan stands up, clenching his fists. “It was ours, mine and Amara’s. She’d sign her letters _The Serpent_ and I’d stamp missives with this emblem in return. She loved what they symbolized, their potential for rebirth and renewal. Then Jafar took that symbol and tainted it.”

“If you loved her why don’t you know what happened to her?” Will straightens, ready in case he needs to dash for the door.

Firelight flickers in Aayushmaan’s eyes, the hard set to his jaw tightening. “One story for another, Knave. I admit you have some skill in protecting your mind from my ability, but in the end I will have what I want and I promise, you will not like when I rip the memory from your mind. Now…where is Amara?”

“Can’t give you what I don’t have,” Will says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Aayushmaan crosses the distance between them. This time, instead of using his power, the man grabs his shirt in his fists, pulling Will towards him. But there is no violence in the gesture, instead, Will sees the desperation in Aayushmaan’s eyes.

“Please.” Something glistens in his eyes. Tears. “Your friend is gone, you’re the last chance I have to find her. Who is Cyrus and how is he connect to Amara?”

Will’s brow furrows, Aayushmaan’s grip on him forgotten as a terrible feeling begins to fill the pit of his stomach. “What makes you think she’s gone?”

Aayushmaan releases his hold on Will’s shirt, letting him step back out of range again. “Her room is empty.”

“Empty?” He races for the door, all manner of shadow and nightmarish ghouls rising up in his mind. Aayushmaan’s earlier warning rang through his head. _She’s in danger._

He’s in the hall seconds later and he only half registers that Aayushmaan hasn’t tried to stop him. Then he’s outside Alice’s door. Foregoing the civility of knocking to announce himself, he throws the door wide open.

Silent darkness greets him.

“Alice?” There’s a tremor in his voice because he knows no one will answer. At his back, Aayushmaan joins him.

Moonlight barely illuminates the bed which lies empty and unslept in. Will searches the room for her pack, for any sign she’s just gone out for a bit of sword practice, or a walk to clear her head. But the room is well and truly empty. He spins on Aayushmaan.

“You said she was in danger. What danger? What do you know?” Now it’s his turn to grab the sorcerer. He clenches the soft fabric of Aayushmaan’s cloak in tightening fingers, panic rising within him. “Where is she?”

“I’m not the only one who seeks Jafar’s killer,” he replies, calmly. They both know it would only take a gentle motion from him to freeze Will with his power. He doesn’t though, and Will releases him.

“Who?”

“I do not have a name. His followers have infiltrated this land deeper than you realize, but I do not think it was by their hand she left this place.”

“What makes you think that?”

Aayushmaan raises a hand, pointing at something in the dark behind Will. “Something lies just there. On the desk.”

Will turns, eyes adjusting to the dark. Faintly outlined in moonlight, he spots a small piece of paper. Aayushmaan pulls it towards them with his magic, settling it gently into Will’s open palms.

The paper is neatly folded and across the front, in a hurried script, is his name. Slowly, for the black knot in the bottom of his stomach from earlier is growing, reaching inky tendrils up into his heart. A heart that’s racing and aching all at once.

_Dearest Will,_

_I hope that one day you will forgive me. For bringing you back to Wonderland, for asking you to stay, for Ana…for this. For leaving you here._

_You’ve been at my back when others abandoned me to nothingness. There’s so much I wanted to say tonight, to express. But everything still sits so raw on both our hearts. And I knew, if you had the slightest hint, you’d never let me go alone._

_Because, Will, that’s the amazing thing about you. For all your grumbling, all your hesitation, your caution…you’ve stood beside me, no matter what. You’ve guarded me when it seemed the whole of every world I’ve known stood against me. You’ve become integral to my very existence._

_And because of that I cannot bring you to further danger. I need you to live, Will. To find happiness and peace. And perhaps, in time, forgive._

_With all my heart,_

_Alice_

Will is shaking as he finishes the letter. He re-reads it two more times before letting his hand fall away, still clutching the paper.

Alice was gone.


	6. The Ghosts Of Dreams and Waking Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Alice, a storm is coming. You must run.”_
> 
> _The sky begins to darken above them. Thunder rolls in the distance and the air grows cool with the coming rain._
> 
> _“What’s a little rain?” Alice finds she does not want to leave just yet. She wants to soothe her guilt, to imagine what might have been with the woman who’d once tried to kill her and ended up giving her life to help her._
> 
> _Ana’s face grows frantic, but her voice takes on the timber and cadence of Will’s. “Alice, you need to wake up. Danger is coming. You are not safe…"_

The cold bites at her skin, slipping between the narrow spaces where her cloak closes around her neck. It reaches up under the billowing edges, nipping at the thin material of her leggings. Winter descends on the mountain and Alice feels it sinking into her bones.

But deeper than the ache in her limbs, her fingertips, the tips of her ears tucked under the cloak’s hood, her toes, is the ache in her heart.

For the first time since leaving Bethlem, Alice feels truly alone.

Each step is one of will and determination, even as every inch gained rips another part of her heart free. Cyrus may lie on the path ahead, but Alice knows a piece of her lies in the valley behind her. Had it grown larger than the part of her Cyrus held? When had she fractured so deeply, scattering across the whole of Wonderland like glass shards on the wind?

She wants to cry but the wind dries her eyes before the first tear can fall. It’s unforgiving, battering her till she feels bruised in body and spirit.

“You made the right choice,” she says to herself and the wind, but the words fall like stones to the ground. She’s no longer certain what’s right and what’s wrong.

Except that not having Will at her back feels wrong. Painfully wrong.

_Think of Cyrus._

But that’s all she’s thought of for as long as she can remember. It’s been the whip driving her, the dream fueling her, the lifeline she clung to in the abyss of Bethlem, the goal forever out of reach. She’s loved him, lost him, and mourned him, but she’s searched for him nearly as long as she’s known him. Worked more to save him than experienced life with him.

And now she hastens toward him, once again, racing against the forces converging around them. Would they be forever caught in this current? A mad loop spinning them round and round till what’s normal is strange and what’s strange becomes normal.

What a topsy-turvy world Wonderland could be sometimes.

The climb is rigorous, jagged stone teeth cutting into her gloved palms and covered knees. A few times, as she tried scaling a steep rock face, she slid far enough she scraped up the tender flesh of her belly trying to stop her fall. Her heart had hammered in her chest for five solid minutes before she’d attempted the climb a second time.

Now, mercifully, the ground has leveled somewhat, a snow dusted path snaking through two massive peaks. Ahead Alice can make out a valley of rock and ice. A few trees and shrubs cling to the hostile terrain. Their limbs are crooked and bent, reaching up from small banks of snow towards the sunlight. Their leaves are bright blue and white, matching the hues of the icy cliffs that rise up on either side of the valley. Each time the wind blows through them, a light rustling fills the valley, as though they laugh in the face of adversity. Even the trees in Wonderland are brave and fearless. She approaches the valley, tired and worn but knowing the way before her is still miles and days long.

This is the only known pass through the range. Unless one had wings of course, but Alice has yet to find a mushroom or tincture that will allow her to sprout wings and fly, so this is the path she must to walk to get to the far side of Wonderland. She swipes away a patch of melting snow so she might sit against a tree and rest for a time.

“Such a strange place,” Alice muses, thinking on the northern strip of land cut off from the rest of Wonderland. She’d once a spent a week with Cyrus in the only settlement on that side of the mountain. It butted up against the vast ocean, but rather than a harbor for seafaring ships transporting merchandise, the village was a port of a magical kind.

Back before the days of The Queen of Hearts, it’d had been a hub for incoming travelers moving through portals between worlds. The magic of the White Rabbit had once run rich in the blood of Wonderlanders and several generations of families made their home in the little village, maintaining the portals for travel.

The Queen of Hearts had either enslaved or killed off so many with the gift those left alive had gone into hiding, leaving the town to wither into nothing more than a small rag-tag community of stubborn citizens bent on surviving.

_Not unlike these trees_ , she thinks, touching hand to their cold bark. _Not unlike you._

She pulls her pack around in front of her, nestling her back against the sturdy spine of the tree. Her provisions are meager. She’d given half to Will for his own pack because she hadn’t wanted to alert him to her plan. Nor had she wanted to strand him in the village without the ability to leave. Their gold supply was finite and dwindling; rescue missions were expensive.

From the belly of the pack she pulls the bright red apple. Down in the valley, its twin sits in Will’s pack. For a brief moment last night she’d contemplated sharing the apples over their final meal but Will was far from stupid. Such an intimate act would have triggered his instincts, told him something was off, if he hadn’t already felt it. It was a surprise to her she’d been able to sneak so easily from the inn. Not even Iris had marked her exit.

There and gone again. A girl without roots.

_Because your roots reside in a person, not a place_. And this time, it’s not Cyrus she’s thinking of.

She sets the apple back into the back, not yet ready to consume this link to Will. Instead she pulls some cured meats and dry cheese from a wax pouch. The meat is tough but flavorful. The cheese crumbles apart between her fingers but the heat of her mouth warms it, softening it into a melted confection of milk with a hint of herb.

The food settles pleasantly in her belly and she begins to feel the fatigue of her hurried trek up the mountain. Perhaps a few minutes rest. Just enough to replenish her stores so she can make it to the caves honeycombed through the peak before nightfall.

She drifts to the sound of the laughter through the trees, eyes drooping till she falls fast sleep.

 

***

 

This time she dreams of Anastasia.

Not the Red Queen who once sat on a crimson throne with the cold trappings of power and wealth and a proud countenance. This was Ana, the young woman who wore a simple homespun dress and let her hair fall loose about her shoulders. She walks beside Alice, her face calm and thoughtful. Together they slowly make their way along a trail under tall pine trees in a foreign place. It has the feel of Sherwood. Though she’s never been, she imagines this must be what it looks like from Will’s tales.

There is all the intimacy of a long friendship between them. A sense of comfortable companionship.

_This is what might have been,_ Alice thinks, watching the Ana who loved Will. The woman he spoke of at their campfire confessionals. Who’d finally come back to him, only to die.

Were that dreams were portals to the past. What would she change if she could?

But not even Nyx could bring Ana back. All any of them had left of her were dreams and memories, each with the fragility of spun sugar. Time would eventually dissolve them like water.

“You should not dwell on what might have been, Alice,” Ana says as though she can read Alice’s mind. Perhaps she can. Ana stops so she can grab Alice’s hand. The touch feels real, warm and firm. “You’ll drive yourself mad.”

She’s already there. “I failed you both.”

“Do you love him?” Ana touches either side of her face, gently pulling her close. Alice casts her eyes down, overcome with emotion.

“Cyrus needs me,” she starts, but Ana shakes her head.

“You forget Alice, I’m apart of you. As much as Will, I’ve shaped you. I’m here,” she touches her temple, a soft brush that leaves a tingling sensation in its wake, “and here,” a slight pressure over her heart, “you cannot hide from me. Not even now.”

Alice’s shoulders slump. Her conscious _would_ take the form of Ana in her dreams.

“I do not deserve to love him,” she admits, finally honest with herself.

“I felt much the same, at the end.” Ana’s face turns wistful. She drops her hands and sweeps her skirt to the side so she can sit on a moss covered log. “After everything I’d done, everything I’d sacrificed between us just to have power, to feel in _control_ of my destiny...I was sure I’d shattered any chance he might love me again.”

“He never stopped loving you,” Alice joins her on the log, picking at the fronds of a nearby fern.

Silence falls between them, long and heavy enough that Alice looks up from her ministrations on the fern to see Ana peering into the canopy, lost in thought.

Finally, Ana breaks the spell. “He never stopped caring, it’s true. Even without his heart he wouldn’t let Jafar kill me. But, I believe he came to love someone else.”

At this Alice freezes. She doesn’t want to hear what Ana might say next. Doesn’t want to renew an ache that’s been steadily growing within her chest for months now. To give it voice would be to birth it into existence. And yet, it isn’t really Ana talking to her. Just the figment of a shard of something that lodge itself into her heart long ago.

It’s _her_ dream after all. And the hind brain that rules instinct and gut feelings and innate ability is trying to tell her what she won’t let her waking mind think about.

“You’ll only be able to deny it for so long,” Ana muses, the waning light dancing in her eyes. She smiles at Alice, though it’s sad. She knows she’s nothing more than the ghost of a girl lingering in the hollows of Alice’s heart.

Ana’s head snaps up, suddenly alert in the silent forest. She listens. For what, Alice cannot tell.

Then Ana pulls her up from their spot on the log, clasping at her hands. The touch is strong, so full of life she’s almost believes she’s standing in Sherwood Forest with Anastasia, not dosing under a tree.

“Alice, a storm is coming. You must run.”

The sky begins to darken above them. Thunder rolls in the distance and the air grows cool with the coming rain.

“What’s a little rain?” Alice finds she does not want to leave just yet. She wants to soothe her guilt, to imagine what might have been with the woman who’d once tried to kill her and ended up giving her life to help her.

Ana’s face grows frantic, but her voice takes on the timber and cadence of Will’s. “Alice, you need to wake up. Danger is coming. You are not safe… 

…Alice!”

 

***

 

A figure looms over her, bathing her in shadow. As a gloved hand reaches for her she scrambles back, sliding in the slush around her. The movement is desperate. She claws for any purchase to put distance between her and whoever stands before her.

Their hand catches at her boot, dragging her back towards them. Alice kicks, trying to shake their grip off but it holds fast. Whoever this is, they’re strong.

She thinks of the stranger from the village but the build is different. Not to mention they’re wearing all black where he wore earthy browns and tans. The face is covered but two coal black eyes stare back at her, furrows lining their brow.

Shoving, she pushes the pack away from them, twisting onto her side. If she manages to stand she doesn’t want the straps to tangle up her footwork. The ice beneath them will be challenging but she has the benefit of experience. London knew its share of winter weather and she can’t imagine much ice forms in Agrabah.

Alice kicks at the hand around her boot once more, reaching up into her sleeve for her knife.

_So ready to kill_ , a voice sneers in her mind and this time it’s Jafar.

For a moment his face flashes before her, his shock morphing him into something almost human as blood coats her hands. For one second he’s just another lost soul. Another Ana with a history of bad choices and heartache behind him, guiding him to his final end at the point of Alice’s sword.

_You forgave The Red Queen_ , the voice taunts her. _What chance did you give me?_

That’s all the distraction it takes for her attacker to get the upper hand. A tight grip on her upper thigh yanks her back. Alice grimaces, the rough terrain and ice scraping at her back. Even the cloak does little to mitigate the damage. Warmth spreads across her back. Blood?

Before she can reach a hand around to touch the wound the cloaked shadow hauls her up to her feet, squeezing a large palm around her wrist. The pressure wants her to drop the knife but she grits her teeth, knowing to do so would mean certain defeat. She kicks at their exposed shins but they take the hit in stride. Trained, no likely, by Jafar to withstand high levels of pain.

“Jafar is gone!” she screams into the wind, unsure if the knowledge will stay their hand or drive them into a frenzy, but she’s desperate.

_Please, I’m tired of so much death._

But there’s no hesitation in their attack. The pressure on her wrist increases to an excruciating degree, making her cry out. Wind pulls the sound from her throat and tosses it over the edge of the rise she climbed over earlier.

Alice tries to bring her other hand over to grab the knife but they stop her short. She jumps up, planting her feet into their chest, then pushes off, flipping into the air. The motion wrenches her wrists free as she lands. Her captor stumbles back, sliding on the slushy snow.

Raising up onto the ball of one foot she spins on the ice, bringing her leg up in a roundhouse kick that sends the cloaked figure flying. Her wrists throb but she readies her knife, falling into a familiar stance that will give her solid footing despite the terrain.

They right themselves and stare at her for a long moment. Alice wonders if they even understood her. Perhaps they do not even speak the same language. It seems laughable, that at this juncture, all that might keep her from harm is a misunderstanding.

“You serve a dead man,” she says, angling the knife towards them.

“I serve myself now,” a deep, accented voice rumbles.

It that moment Alice understands two things: Cyrus will never be safe so long as he remains a genie, and the man standing before her will kill her to get to the bottle.

He pulls a scimitar loose from its tie at his waist, twisting it with expert ease in his palm. The twirling, gleaming blade far outmatches her dagger and she knows blood will soon stain the snow if she can’t get the upper hand.

Higher ground. She needs to get above him.

To her left she spies a small rise leading up to a shelf of rock a few feet above their position. Icicles hang off the edge, dripping in the sunlight. They’ll make the climb difficult but she sees little choice. Alice makes a dash for the ledge as her attacker lunges. At her back she hears the blade sing, feels its edge graze the tail of her cloak.

Scrambling, she jumps from rock to rock till she’s below the ledge. The swordsman is at her heels, honed blade arcing through the air towards her. Alice bends forward to avoid the strike. One foot slips on the rock sending her reeling towards the cliff’s face. She swings her own blade till it connects with his, metal clanging on metal. He pushes inward, sliding his scimitar along her dagger bringing his face within inches of her own. The high pitched whine sets Alice’s nerves on end. She pushes back with all her might but his weight is too much, the rock at her back unyielding.

_Down_ , a voice inside her says, and it has the cadence of Will’s.

She lets the ice she’s been struggling against have its way, slipping down between the swordsman’s legs. His scimitar slams against the stone.

Her back flares with pain as the sharp edges of stone embed themselves into her skin. The cloak helps but not much. No time to think on the pain, she needs to get to that ledge.

She’s on her feet again before her attacker can turn. A leap in the air gives her purchase on the lip of the ledge. Alice braces her feet against the underside of the ledge, pushing herself further onto the ledge.

A hand clamps around her calf and she can’t contain the scream that slips out. Fear races through her veins and now she’s frantic, pulling at little grooves in the stone to lift herself the rest of the way onto the ledge. She’s dragged back, stone scrapping against the already tender flesh of her belly. A swift kick rewards her with a muffled sound of pain and the grip on her loosens enough she can pull herself onto the ledge.

For a moment she can only lay there, catching her breath. Then the image of the swordsman climbing the ledge has her rising, chest heaving anew from the panic pooling there.

_Get a hold of yourself, Alice._ This isn’t the first time she’s faced death, faced terrible odds.

But it is the first time, in a long time, she’s been alone to face them.

She misses Will more than anything in that moment.

Hair pulled loose from the braid she’d bound it in earlier, blood sticky on her back and pulling at her clothes, new blood welling on her stomach where there are likely more angry red welts already forming, she can’t help feeling like a wild thing. Survive or perish, the only instincts driving her. There is no room for half shades of victory.

Her eyes dart around, looking for any sign that her attacker is climbing over the edge of the ledge. She inches backwards, sparing a glance at all potential points of attack. One side of the ledge connects to one of the cliff walls enclosing the valley, one side leads down towards the trees – back the way she came – and the other…

Alice feels her heart leap into her throat, ice threading her veins which has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the sight below her.

The far side of the ledge drops away into the clouds, down the side of the mountain. She cannot even see the bottom. Gulping, she puts her back to that side, knowing there is no way her attacker would come from that point.

A streak of black launches into the air, faster than Alice has ever seen anyone move, even the stranger. Before she knows it, the swordsman is rolling onto the ledge, having jumped the distance and tucking into a ball before landing. His agility surprises her but for only a moment. Instinct kicks in.

She’s rushing across the ledge towards him before he can rise fully, slamming into him to throw him off balance. Then she’s bringing her knife down, frantic, desperate for a strike. He’s too quick. Then he’s up, circling her and they begin their deadly dance.

“I just want the genie. You can walk away,” he says, a silken purr in his voice masking the menace.

Blood loss is making her head woozy. “We both know you won’t let me walk away.”

He pulls the cloth down from over his mouth, revealing dark thin lips. They’re curved into a smile, curved like his scimitar. “No, I won’t.”

“Then it’s this,” she says, resigned. “Because I won’t give you Cyrus just to save myself.” She’s glad in that moment Will isn’t there, as badly as she misses his face, his voice, his warmth. She’s glad she was able to pull the danger away from him. He isn’t there to fall under this man’s blade, he’s safe at The Golden Afternoon. _You made the right choice. He will live and you will die and that’s okay._

_But not before I take you with me_ , she thinks, tightening her grip on her dagger. She removes the second blade from her boot, calm finally settling over her. She’s always known, deep down, saving Cyrus might mean sacrificing her life.

Something in her posture, in her face and tone, pulls him up short. For a moment, doubt crosses his features.

_That’s right_ , she thinks, something feral shaking alive within her, _you should fear me_. _I’m a monster and you will bleed today._

Then she begins her attack, cold efficiency filling her. It’s become easier, since Jafar, to shut off the part of her that feels. To slip into a deadly eye of the storm where only skill and determination live. It’d never given her pleasure to kill but after everything she’s faced, the lives she’s had to watch fade away, the lives coating her own hands, she’s found it harder and harder to deny the truth.

Ana’s voice whispers to her from a dream that seems eons old now. _As much as Will, I’ve shaped you._

And just like Ana, Jafar had shaped her.

She’s a killer.

They clash against each other, her daggers against his sword. She snarls and presses into the attack. For any on the outside looking in, she would appear as a whirlwind, spinning on her heel and the ball of her foot in a flurry of movement. Her blade makes contact with skin and before he can locate its entry she’s pulled it free and spinning out of his reach. This close, her daggers are an advantage over his large sword. Still, he swings it with the force of one wielding a club, desperate for contact. The broad side hits her a time or two, knocking her off balance for a moment.

Then she’s spinning again, so familiar with this dance she could close her eyes and give her body over to it entirely.

But she’s too aware of the edge that drops away to nothing to slip into that mindless place of muscle memory and fluid hind brain skill.

Her attacker grows frenzied with his blood loss, an animal cornered and loosing. Which makes him all the more dangerous. Alice pivots once to the right, a feint, then spins back to the left, but he’s waiting for her. The scimitar finds flesh. Pain shoots up from her arm and she drops Cyrus’ blade. Crimson blooms through her clothing, soaking the fabric.

She fights through the pain, teeth clenched. Just another wound in a long line of wounds. She can survive-

His hand is around her throat then, tightening. Stars explode at the edges of her vision. He’s choking the very air from her. On pure instinct she slams Will’s blade into the space between his sixth and seventh rib, nicking his liver deeply. He grunts, shoulders drooping slightly on the side she’s punctured but he doesn’t let her go. Instead he begins to back them towards the drop off, step by step.

She struggles against the movement but her feet slip beneath her and she’s helpless to stop him.

“Alice!”

Will’s voice reaches to her from across the valley, carried on a chilled wind. She thinks she’s imagining it, the mind conjuring him from the haze of near death. Over the shoulder of her killer she spies his face. It’s contorted in fear and a fair bit of rage. A short dagger is already in his hands and he’s racing towards them. Her beautiful, amazing Will.

_Do you love him?_

_Yes_. The truth acknowledged fills her with beautiful light.

“No!” he bellows, leaping for the ledge. Behind him she can make out the stranger, hand raised. His eyes are locked onto the man in black. He’s trying to stop her attacker? Already the swordsman struggles against the magical touch.

But it’s too late, she’s slipping, sliding, hanging too far over the edge and all that’s holding her in place is a gloved hand around the necklace that once linked her to Cyrus.

“No! Alice!” Will’s on the ledge now. “Hold on!”

Time freezes as she hears the snap, the necklace giving way.

“Will,” she whispers, holding onto his gaze, hand reaching for him. Every emotion she’s held in check pours out of her. _I’m sorry I never told you._

Then she’s falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As writers, whether of fanfiction or the broader umbrella of genres we love, we always put a piece of ourselves in our work. Feel feel it deeply. And while Will and Alice are not of my creation, I feel them deep within me and through them a piece of me exists. Not many will ever see this story or even know it exists but I write it because it's a story within me that's burning to be told.
> 
> As a sometimes poet I had this to say once to the mirror:
> 
> you're wondering  
> whether your story  
> is worth the bleeding  
> and I'm here whispering:  
> "Pain the walls red,  
> darling."


	7. On Bright and Shattered Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The weight collapses him, his knees hitting the ice and stone but he doesn’t even feel it over the pain rampaging through his heart, his head, his very core. Sobs wrack his body. He pitches forward onto his forearms, head between either hand, face pressed into the slush. His fingers tear at the ground, clenching and unclenching. Distantly, from somewhere outside himself, he can hear the scrape of his nails on the rocks._

Will reaches the ledge in time to watch milk-white clouds enfold Alice. It’s almost peaceful, almost beautiful; her cloak fluttering like wings in the wind, hair fanned around her in an auburn halo, pure joy lighting her eyes at the sight of him, his name on her lips like a lover’s soft plea.

Almost.

“No!” he bellows, reaching out even though there’s nothing to grab onto. Nothing to save. She’s just…

_Gone._

Tears streak his face, rage shaking his body till he’s sure his teeth will rattle free of his skull. Beside him a sickening crack fills the silence following his scream. A tower of black crumbles to the snow; Alice’s attacker lies motionless, neck at an odd angle.

Aayushmaan joins him on the ledge easily with the help of his magic. Will turns to him, anger thick in his voice, fire blazing though his veins, war drums pounding in his head. He’s seeing red, red, red.

“Why didn’t you stop her from falling? You could have saved her!” He grips his dagger, ready for blood and he doesn’t care whose.

Aayushmaan gives him a sympathetic look and it nearly undoes Will. He doesn’t want this sorcerer’s pity. He wants Alice back. _Now._

“I could not. Even my power is limited. Manipulating more than one body is difficult and,” Aayushmaan sweeps his hand over the still form of the swordsman, “he was already well on the way to killing her. I made the choice to stop him.”

“Use your power and lower me down.” Will looks over the ledge.

“What will that accomplish?”

Will snaps his head back to the sorcerer. “There might be a ledge down there. She could still be alive. Wounded. Now, mate-” Will raises the dagger, pointing the tip towards Aayushmaan with dark intent, “will you lower me or not?”

There’s that look of pity again on his face. Will wants to smack it from his face. “I cannot manipulate a body I cannot see. Once you passed through the clouds I’d lose control and you’d plummet.”

“What would you do for Amara?” Will begs, aching everywhere.

Aayushmaan’s face grows solemn, considering his words. But his shoulders slump as he shakes his head. “Even if my power worked that way, no one should ever see someone they love in that state. Broken on the stone like so many dropped eggs. Trust me, Knave, when I tell you…you do not want to see what the clouds hide.”

No. He doesn’t believe it. _Can’t_ believe it. Not Alice.

Not his Alice.

He has nothing left now. His heart went over that ledge. What beats in his chest is a hollow ashen thing, burnt through with loss. Will clutches at his shirt, wishing for the ability of The Queen of Hearts. He wants to tear the bloody thing from his ribcage and toss if after the woman he loves.

The weight collapses him, his knees hitting the ice and stone but he doesn’t even feel it over the pain rampaging through his heart, his head, his very core. Sobs wrack his body. He pitches forward onto his forearms, head between either hand, face pressed into the slush. His fingers tear at the ground, clenching and unclenching. Distantly, from somewhere outside himself, he can hear the scrape of his nails on the rocks.

The tip of a finger grazes Alice’s necklace. Will lifts his head, vision bleary. He curls a hand around the broken strand, lifting the pendant up till weak sunlight glints through the cracked glass. It had once been the hope in Alice, the one thing besides her heart that told her Cyrus was still out there, waiting for her.

He can’t help the swell of jealousy and anger that wells within him.

“This is your bloody fault,” he whispers to the charm. He pulls his arm back to launch it into the air and out of his life. Mid-throw he stops, staring at the necklace. He can’t toss it away. It’s a link to Cyrus, but it’s also a link to Alice.

He pockets the charm just as Aayushmaan kneels beside him, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. The contact renews the pain in Will’s heart but he doesn’t shove it away.

“I am truly sorry for your loss, Will.”

The word ‘ _loss_ ’ is a bolt to his heart, threatening to unleash the torrent again. Instead a knot hardens within him, turning into steel. _This is not the end._

“Alice is alive.” The words are soft but full of fire, as though by sentiment alone he’ll will it to be true. Because in Wonderland, he’s learned, anything is possible.

Aayushmaan purses his lips, unconvinced and likely a bit worried his only lead on Amara is slipping into madness.

 _Already there_ , he thinks and somewhere fate is laughing at the turn of phrase, knowing moments before Alice shared a similar thought. Curiouser and Curiouser, the things that bind people; across time and space and mountain ranges, the heart finds its connection and does not let go for anything.

“Knave,” this time Aayushmaan’s tone is gentle, as though he speaks to a confused child, “there is no way…”

Will turns to him, stone and resolve in his eyes. “Alice is alive.”

At this the sorcerer draws back, a look of doubt passing across his strangely youthful features. “What proof do you have to form such a certainty?”

Something Alice once told him springs into his mind, fresh as the first time she said it and he latches on fiercely, face growing hot despite the chill. “When you love someone, you don’t need proof. You just know it,” he clenches a fist and places it over his chest, “in your heart.”

He expects Aayushmaan to denounce the notion as pure fancy, as the ravings of a man in the devastating grip of grief. Instead, the sorcerer cocks his head to the side, eyes dark and unfathomable. He can see power swirling there in dusky eddies. The body on the ground beside them is a crumpled testament to his capabilities. Will won’t forget, as companionable as Aayushmaan’s been, the sorcerer is still a dangerous man.

“It is a powerful feeling, the sense that you are right and nothing can dissuade you from your course. I cannot say I am a stranger to such a conviction.” Aayushmaan’s eyes unfocus. Thinking of Amara, no doubt. He’s a man with his own certainties. “That said, what do you plan to do about it? I cannot lower you down and you have no magic of your own to call upon.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” Will points towards the pass. “On the other side of this range lies the answer to your quest and mine.”

Aayushmaan follows his finger, spying the narrow path leading down the northern face of the mountain. Will grabs at Alice’s pack before he turns back. He cinches the ties as tight as they’ll go. They’ve a ways to fall and he doesn’t want to risk losing any of the meager bounty within. He shuffles to the cliff, glancing over to gauge where he saw Alice fall.

He holds the pack, suspended, over the open air. If he believed in a higher power he’d send a prayer into the heavens, but all he believes in is his heart and he trusts it right now to guide his hand. A slight shift to the left feels right.

“Alice! Hold on! I’m coming for you.” Then he releases his grip on the pack and watches it fall into the clouds. _Hold on, please._ He takes comfort in the knowledge Alice will fight till the end. She won’t give up so long as there is breath in her lungs. And neither will he.

“What lies to the north?” the sorcerer asks.

Will straightens, eyes still on the lazily drifting clouds separating him from Alice. “Cyrus.”

 

***

 

The climb down is rough. Will has little concern for bodily harm, he just wants off the mountain as quickly as possible. The sorcerer manages to match his pace without complaint but he’s grown solemn, keeping his own council. It suites Will just fine. He doesn’t want to waste breath on idle chit chat.

 _Mark the day!_ He can practically hear Alice say with a laugh in her voice. He holds the image of her mirth-filled eyes steady in his mind, a transparent tableau imprinted on the horizon.

The wind is punishing this side of the range. Fronts off the ocean he’s begun to smell press against the stone cliffs and pass, howling a baleful song. It matches the notes singing through his heart. Far in distance he can see the faint smudge of a village – a cold, stark twin to its southern neighbor.

He’s heard of this place. Anyone in the employ of The Queen of Hearts knows its sorrowful tale.

Brightshore was once its name. Back when commerce bustled through its streets and ports of exotic origins traded wares and enchantment for coin and favor. Back when portal magic ran rich in the citizen’s veins and worlds lay open like oysters, their wonders a pearl waiting to be plucked by willing adventurers. Now, it’s simply known as Shoreline. A place – thanks to the Queen – where night and day live forever in perpetual twilight. Nothing more than a hollow city at the edge of The Sea of Tears, a vast ocean to nowhere.

The end of the known world.

Will takes a moment to stop, one foot propped up on a jagged tip of rock. He’s caught in a memory, staring down at that haunted shadow of a place. The memory of how they learned where Jafar tossed Cyrus when he cast his final spell.

The knowledge had cost dearly. Caterpillar didn’t deal in light agreements, nor did he barter without gaining more than he gave. And from the beginning, he’d known the worth of Cyrus’ whereabouts. The price for the spell Alice needed in order to locate the bottle was one she’d been unwilling to pay.

The White Rabbit’s magic.

“I won’t do it, not even for Cyrus,” she’d said, eyes glinting like flint. A little tinder and they were ready to ignite.

“It’s my choice, Alice,” the White Rabbit had said, clutching the hand of his wife. Alice had saved the rabbit’s family from harm, setting him free of Ana’s control. He felt obligated to her but Alice still would not ask him for the prize Caterpillar demanded.

“You can’t give that cretin your magic, Rabbit.”

“I’m with Alice on this, rabbit. You don’t want to know what that bloke’ll do with the ability to travel between worlds.” He’d pictured Caterpillar stretching his influence to Storybrooke. Shuddered at the thought.

“We’ll find another way,” Alice had said sternly and that was the end of the discussion.

But under the cloak of night, while Will and Alice slumbered around an extinguished campfire just outside the rabbit’s burrow, he’d slipped out and met with the Caterpillar. The next morning they found his tiny, shivering form in the dewed grass, bloody and near death. The taking had not been gentle and it was days before the White Rabbit could even give Alice the location of the spell they sought.

“Oh Rabbit,” Alice had whispered, eyes glimmering blue-green pools. She’d curled up beside his bed, bereft and raw. But the rabbit had merely taken her hand, patting it.

“My gift was a curse Alice. It put me and my family in danger. If I can rid myself of it and reunite you with Cyrus…well that’s the least I can do to repay my debts. To ask your forgiveness and make amends.” In the end, it hadn’t been Alice’s choice and the Caterpillar had counted on the Rabbit’s guilt.

The magic did its work, pinpointing the exact location of Cyrus’ bottle but the White Rabbit never fully recovered from the loss of his magic, remaining a shadowed slip of his former self. And despite claiming he was happier for it, it seemed as though a fundamental part of his soul had been ripped free.

Alice had promised that upon finding Cyrus they would plan a way to get the Rabbit’s power back but Will silently worried about the mark such an act would put on her head. The Caterpillar would not suffer the theft without retribution.

Staring down at Shoreline, Will wonders if those who lost their magic at the hands of Cora look like the White Rabbit did when he last saw him. Hunched under an unseen weight, pallor accented by the haggard look in their eyes.

“Will we reach it before nightfall?” Aayushmaan asks, joining him in a similar pose. The sorcerer doesn’t seem phased by the plummeting temperature. Warmed by his magic perhaps?

Will gives the darkening sky a perfunctory glance. Night will be upon them in an hour, roughly. But he’s not stopping till his feet walk those dusty streets. “No.” Then he moves on without looking back to see if Aayushmaan follows him.

 

***

 

At the edge of Shoreline’s outer most reaches lights twinkle darkly. Their hue is cold and pale, flickering against a ragged landscape. Stunted shrubbery and limp grass the color of bone dust cling to the marsh-soft soil. This close to the ocean everything smells of salt and dried kelp.  Above Shoreline hangs a dull coin of a moon. And in the distance, if one looks hard enough, there is a faint outline of the sun from another world.

It is said that somewhere at the far side of The Sea of Tears lies a portal The Queen of Hearts couldn’t close, forever stuck open sucking in a sea that never drains. When night falls on Shoreline it is day there, and just as the sun rises over the coastal village, the moon rises in that other place.

 _Perpetual Twilight_.

It is also said Cora filled the seas near the portal with fearsome beasts and harrowing storms that never cease. Sirens and mer-creatures live where no others can, pulling unlucky travelers who cross their path into the icy depths of the bottomless ocean. In this way she cut off all use of that last connection to other worlds.

Will hadn’t been sure what to believe, but the circular outline of dim yellow at the sharp horizon line is enough to convince him that there is some truth to the legends he heard as a new recruit in Cora’s ranks.

The buildings dotting the fringes of Shoreline are little more than shacks. Boards once polished to a bright sheen and maintained with care now sag and splinter, leaking light and any modicum of warmth its inhabitants might be enjoying. White-wash paint, blistered and peeling, coat fence posts and warped doors. The yards, even this far out, are soggy from the reaching skeleton-thin fingers of the sea.

“Where do we go?” Aayushmaan whispers, crouching beside him. There is no hiding, even with magic, the tired look on his face. They _both_ feel the rigorous descent. Will’s own body aches and creaks with fatigue. Cuts caked with dried blood lace his palms and likely his shins, though he hasn’t lifted his pants to check. But, despite the late hour – most abed and dreaming of a better life, those that might still dream of such things – Will feels a renewed sense of urgency this close to his goal.

_Not much longer, Alice._

Will pulls a worn map from his pack. A duplicate copy resides in Alice’s. He’s as familiar with the map and its markings as he is his own face, but still he opens it and looks at the glowing pinprick of light just north of them on the other side of Shoreline.

He touches it but there’s no warmth, the magic simply a beacon marking Cyrus’ location. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder, marveling at the soft light emanating off the map.

“Curious,” he whispers, running a finger over the same spot.

Will tries not to think about what that bright little dot cost.

“Ever north, mate.” He folds the map and places it in the pocket of his jacket this time. For quick access.

“Do we whisper out of courtesy or are we about the art of stealth this night?” Aayushmaan asks, giving Will a sharp, knowing look.

“These people have known more strife and pain than I’d wish on my worst enemy,” – _except maybe Jafar_ – “so you tell me…if you had the chance at your heart’s desire, no matter the strings or the cost, knowing this life was all that waited for you if you didn’t take the chance, would _you_ pass up a genie?” Will’s not exactly the trusting sort. He doesn’t begrudge the citizens of Shoreline – those with enough fight still in them – their dreams but he won’t risk Alice’s life, or Cyrus’ for that matter, on the charity of a desperate Wonderlander.

Will doesn’t even trust the man beside him, but there’s no fixing that at the moment. The sorcerer was there and, if Will was honest, driven by the same lash that drove him. Love for another. There might never be true trust between them but he could understand that at least.

“Cyrus is the genie.” This seems to surprise Aayushmaan, but not for long. “Cursed?”

Will nods but says nothing more. He’s playing his cards close to the vest – or jacket, so to speak. Up until now, the sorcerer hasn’t demanded more answers, seeming content to just follow along and see this quest to its end. 

In the pale light Aayushmaan’s profile is familiar and strange at the same moment. As though Will has seen that image somewhere before. In a dream long ago, or conjured in his mind’s eye from a story he can’t quite remember. Then the sorcerer turns his head and the resemblance is gone. 

“That’s who she fought to free. When she took Jafar’s life.” Aayushmaan says this without question. He’s seen the truth of it from Alice’s very mind, but he’s reasoning through everything, putting together puzzle pieces and snapping tidbits of fact into coherence.

Will feels the prick of jealousy snag at his chest. It can’t possibly sting harder than watching her fall off the side of that mountain, so he ignores it. “Yes.” It doesn’t need saying, but he says it anyways, reminding himself that this can only end one way and that one day, perhaps, when he’s brittle and cracked with age, he’ll accept what must be.

_If it means getting her back, safe and sound, I’ll accept the bloody moon falling from the sky to crush me._

The sorcerer gives him a look tinged with shared anguish. “Does she know?”

His meaning hangs between them.

Will looks away, pulling on his familiar mask of indifference. It’s a cold comfort, leaving him feeling empty. “She loves Cyrus.”

A warm hand clutches his shoulder, sending tendrils of heat into his chilled body. So the sorcerer _was_ using magic to keep himself warm. “Can she not love you both? The heart is a vast horizon, Knave. Large enough to encompass the world twice over and somehow small enough to enfold us, fit us like a second skin. I was there. It was your name on her lips as she fell. You will save her only to watch her run into the arms of another man?”

Will swallows down a lump forming in his throat. “For her, yes.” He sets off to the dark alleyway to his right, wanting done with this conversation, wanting to forget the sound of his name on Alice’s lips as she drifted out of his reach. Behind him he think he hears _‘You Fool’_ , but the wind carries it away before it solidifies.

Around the outskirts of Shoreline, he sneaks, one with long shadows and dark pockets. This feels right, like stretching, like breathing in the first crisp scent of winter, like the feel of soft skin under a thumb stroke. He’ll always be a thief. And for once he welcomes the fact without quip or preamble. This is how he can help Alice. 

And aren’t they a pair? The warrior and the thief. Like constellations in the sky, the space of lightyears between them, but still, he reaches towards her, wants just a single brush against her starlight.

 _One last time_ , he thinks. _Let me see her one last time and I’ll say goodbye with whatever dignity I’ve left in me._

It takes an hour to get to the far side of Shoreline, sneaking as they are. Waves beat gently against the soft sand, filling the otherwise quiet night with a raspy, haunting song. It’s strangely relaxing. The surface of the water is relatively still about fifty feet off the coast, away from where the tide pushes against the land. Along the horizon line, just beneath the curve of an otherworld sun, he can spot a dark speck. The never ending storms, churning up sea and froth and all manner of danger.

Without the Rabbit’s magic he knows that portal might be the only way to leave Wonderland now. He could barter for passage with the Caterpillar but there’s nothing left of value, in this world or the next, he owns except his life and the Caterpillar’s already wrung the worth of that dry.

 _Where will you go Will? Where can you outrun what you feel?_ It’s Ana’s voice this time.

“To the farthest world I can find,” he says under his breath.

He pulls the map out again. They’re close. He feels the knowledge in his bones, as though they’re aware he’s inches away from the end of everything. They want to hesitate, to refuse any step in the direction of the genie, but Alice’s falling form flits through his mind, his name on her lips. He growls and takes the step.

Then he’s standing on the spot. It looks like a mound of sand pushed against a craggy lump of stones, undisturbed by anything but the sea. Will falls to his knees and begins clawing at the damp sand, scooping it in clumps and tossing it behind him.

Aayushmaan clears his throat behind him. “There are easier ways, Knave.”

Will pauses, considering. It would make the work easier, to let the sorcerer do the heavy lifting. But there’s still Jafar’s spell. Still the potential that everything this man has told him is a lie meant to lead him right to Cyrus’ doorstep.

On the other hand, there isn’t time. They need the genie’s help. So he stands back, wet sand sticking to his pants and hands. He doesn’t bother to knock it free, instead motioning for Aayushmaan to work his magic.

The sorcerer focuses on the mound, hand out and poised like a claw. Concentration sharpens on his face, drawing his brows close together. The sand begins to shift, sliding up and out of the hole Will already started. At first nothing appears, then the lip of the bottle pokes free of the sand and Will rushes forward, raking fingers against the sand. The bottle comes free with ease and Aayushmaan lowers the bottle into Will’s hands. A gesture of good will.

Breath catches in his throat as Will holds a palm over the side of the bottle. Hesitation nearly stops him. But finally, he presses a shaking hand to the cold metal and gives it a gentle rub.

A plume of smoke pours from the mouth of the bottle, triggering memories of his time as a genie. For a moment he thinks of Lizard, a dull pang of regret tugging at him. Will stands, stepping back to allow the smoke to pool at his feet.

It dissipates into the tall, striking form of Cyrus. Relief floods his dark eyes as the familiar greeting tumbles from his lips. Will is now the master of the genie and he only has one wish.

“Will.” Cyrus scans the shore behind him, gaze lingering for a moment on Aayushmaan. But what he’s looking for isn’t there. “Alice?”

Will pulls the shattered charm from his pocket, the broken chain dangling from his open palm. “I need your help Cyrus. To find her. Save her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are tales left to tell and places still to see.
> 
> Thank you for journeying with me.


	8. Starfall Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somewhere Will hums a tune. It’s low and throaty, coating her in warmth and golden light. It stirs a flutter in her belly, rumbling tendons and heartstrings till she’s practically thrumming – vibrating – with bliss. She’s never felt so safe, so fully enveloped in peace, as she does in this moment._

Alice drifts in a world of white. Misty arms enfold her, leaving translucent droplets on her face and hands. Their cold kisses lance the heat burning under her skin.

_Am I dead?_

It has the feel of a dream though. She even hears Will calling out to her from a great distance, telling her to hold on. But she’s floating with the wind, carried away like a dandelion seed.

The gentle breeze tugs at the ends of her hair, which has fallen loose of its braid. Strands tickle her cheek. She lifts a hand to brush them back when something moves in the mist. A slinking, sliding shadowed form, slipping through her pale world.

Fear hammers her heart but only for a moment. The shape is long, moving with a feline grace. She’s known what it’s like to be hunted and this feels different. Cautious, almost.

“Are you a star?” a soft voice asks, full of curiosity.

The question knocks some of the fog free from her mind. She’s aware of solid pressure at her back. A finger curls around something thin and rough, with tiny knobs and knots. Her other palm goes flat over a crisscross of twigs and…moss? The texture is soft and yields like a sponge when she presses on it. She turns her head away from the apparition, its question forgotten as the world comes into focus through the haze.

Around her, the white settles like a heavy mist, cloaking the edges of something dark. It surrounds her, rising up and fading into nothing. She releases a breath, fanning at the cloud till it shifts, revealing bramble bits and skinny sticks woven into an intricate latch work. Clumps of colorful moss dot the wall, trailing down the side and disappearing beneath her. She turns her head and releases another breath, revealing the far side of the twig and moss bowl she’s lying in.

_A nest._

“Why don’t you glow? Did someone steal it? Is that why you fell?” The voice prods again, shadow moving closer.

Alice lifts herself onto an arm, staring as the form moves closer. The mists part for a creature who stands tall enough that its head would meet her own, were she on her feet. It has the sleek, powerful body of a lion, the proud head of an eagle, soft golden feathers trailing down its neck till they blend into a deep russet fur, sharp talons, and a pointed, curved beak…

A gryphon!

They’re rare in Wonderland, creatures of the mountains and snow. Even in her travels with Cyrus she’s never been this close to one.

“I’m not a star,” she manages, weakly. As she shifts, white hot lightning races up her arm, shooting knives down into her back. She looks down to find the source of the pain. Her sleeve is dark, wet and chilled with blood. She feels the crust of drying wounds on her abdomen pull. Wincing, she lays back down.

“Are you sure?”

“Do stars bleed?” Would they fall so ingloriously from the heavens to lay broken in the nest of a curious gryphon?

“I do not know. I’ve never met a star.” The gryphon sits on its haunches, flicking a thick tail back and forth. The motion sends white mist swirling and dancing through the air.

Panting through the pain Alice spies a dull glint of silver to her right. _Her knife_. Rolling to her side she reaches for it, straining to grab it without renewing the spear of pain. It’s cold in her palm. She presses it to her cheek, sighing as the cool metal chases the heat from her face.

Now that she’s more aware, the heat has her concerned. Fever likely. Infection.

Will’s gift steadies her. Once the blade warms against her skin she slips it back into the sheath at her wrist. The gryphon doesn’t appear to be a threat – _yet_ – and she’s certain even if it was she wouldn’t last more than a moment in her current condition.

“I’m just Alice.” She tries sitting again, gritting her teeth through the pain. Just a lost girl with a heart split rightly in two.

 _Fully in half? Does it not lean one way, Alice?_ Ana’s voice flitting through her mind, reminding her of stormy skies over Sherwood.

“Alice is a strange name for a star. I am Windwing Lighttail. The nest mother says if you catch a falling star your wish will come true.” The gryphon inches closer.

“I’ve no magic to grant wishes,” she says, gingerly touching the wound on her arm. Arcing spears of agony race up her arm and she sees blooms of light.

“Because you’re not a star.”

 _I’m not anything._ But she stops the words from spilling out. Knows the power such things have once uttered and, despite the bones aching under her skin and the weary weight pressing on her heart, she isn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

A wave of dizziness sends her reeling, falling onto her back. Was that sweat in her palms, or mist? Was darkness closing in? Inky cotton fluff edges her vision and the world spins on its axis, rolling her stomach.

“You don’t look so good,” Windwing observes, though there is a detached quality to the tone. As though it cannot relate but understands something is fundamentally wrong with her.

“I haven’t been good for some time,” she says, the dark reality of it making her laugh. But the laughter doesn’t stop when the humor leaves her. Then she’s falling into nothing, the sound of her giggles following her into unconsciousness.

 

***

 

Somewhere Will hums a tune. It’s low and throaty, coating her in warmth and golden light. It stirs a flutter in her belly, rumbling tendons and heartstrings till she’s practically thrumming – _vibrating_ – with bliss. She’s never felt so safe, so fully enveloped in peace, as she does in this moment.

At the velvet dark of her eyelids she sees the flicker of flame. It beckons her to open her eyes. To _see_.

They’re at their campfire. Will sits across from her, his leather jacket as open as the expression on his face. The dappled effect of flame and shadow cuts his face into ridged lines of light and dark. His brows are drawn together, eyes closed as he rocks slowly to the tune he sings.

The song conjures images of deep woods full of wonder and danger. Of emerald green fronds and titan-tall pines. She’s never been to Sherwood but she can see it through his stories, hear it in his voice when he hums like this. The intimacy of this revelation was not lost on her. Who among the world, except those closest to him, knew Will could sing? Not like a bard with bawdy tales – though he does love a good drinking song – nor like the robust opera singers her father took her to see in London as a little girl, with their voices like fluttering, twittering birds and rich, rolling thunder. His is the voice of honey-coated gravel and masculine heat, pouring over her.

She wants to add her voice to his but dares not break the moment, content to watch the play of camp light on his handsome face.

There’s a sense of familiarity, of déjà vu, as though she’s lived this moment before.

Before she latches onto the memory, words spill from her mouth. “I’d like to see your home, one day.”

Will stops humming but the air is heavy with its weight, maintaining its mesmerizing, comforting spell. His eyes open, bright as topaz. They’re looking at her as though _she_ is the light and not the fire between them. There’s everything words aren’t large enough to hold tumbling out of those eyes right now and she’s drowning in their tide.

“There isn’t much wonder in Sherwood, not like here I’m afraid.” His voice is rough, the brogue of his accent marked and thick. It slips in through her ribs and gently curls around her core.

“It had you,” she says, without thinking. The impact of her statement hits him at the same moment it hits her. They stare at each other and he has the look of a man who wants to say more. But a shift – either in the wind or the firewood as its charred bones begin to settle into ash – chases the look from his face, leaving cold silence in its wake.

“Will…” She’s rising from her thin blanket, but the motion feels wrong somehow.

This…didn’t happen. Won’t happen? Was memory interfering with reality? Why did this feel so familiar and so new at the same time?

She shakes her head and steps, barefoot, over moss and pooling mist towards him. He’s frozen on his perch, watching her intently. The only sound is the quick intake and expel of breath; his and hers. She reaches his side, expecting him to shift, to pull back, uncomfortable with her nearness. But he sits still as a statue, eyes glued to her.

“Will.” She cups his face, feels the heat of his skin warm the tips of her fingertips. He’s solid, real, hard angles and heavy brows, smelling of leather and woodsmoke and midnight air. She traces a thumb over one eyebrow as the expression on his face turns hungry and full of longing before he can reign it back behind his carefree mask.

 His hand rises, first at her elbow, then tracing delicate finger-width lines down her forearm till he covers her hand with his hot palm. Will’s eyes slide close as he presses into her touch. Were it possible, it seems as though time stands still. They’ve shared more moments like this than she wants to admit.

 _Wanted_ to admit.

 _It’s all in the past, now isn’t it?_ She coming to accept the truth.

“Will.” His name tastes like hope on her tongue. Like courage and faith and light in the darkness.

“Alice.” He says her name like it’s an anchor holding him to this moment.

Heat burns through her, igniting her like the leaping flames at her back. Her frame darkens his face as she leans in close. Close. Closer. Till they’re scant inches from each other, connected by heart, hand, and eyes.

Is that sweat on her brow? On his? Slickened skin and fever burning through them but she cannot tell if it’s desire she feels or…

 

***

 

…pain.

Alice screams. She’s burning. So hot. So very hot. Even the mist cannot cool her fevered skin.

 _Just a dream_ , she realizes through the feverfog gripping her.

 _No._ Only in part. She _had_ shared that night with Will. Heard him hum a tune from home. Spoke with him about Sherwood and mentioned wanting to see where he came from. But the connection. The touch.

_Do you love him?_

Chills shake her body and the motion makes her aware of the fact she is no longer in the nest. Her face rests against soft, downy feathers. Ripples of feline strength move beneath her.

Air rushes by her, tangling her already tangled hair. It feels grimy and coarse against her sweat damp face. Wings beat at the clouds, the world a hazy cotton white that shifts with each flap.

Was she on Windwing’s back? Flying? To where?

She tries to speak but the fever has weakened her to the point of silence. How quickly this set in. Too quickly. She feels a moment of fear.

_Will I die?_

She’s faced death so many times and bravely squared her shoulders. But now, the thought of dying before seeing Will one more time has her heart racing wildly, a staccato drum thudding in her chest.

 _Please_ , she prays to whoever might listen.

The world falls away beneath her, leaving her stomach somewhere overhead, as Windwing dives.

She has the wherewithal to thread her fingers into Windwing’s feathered mane before unconsciousness takes her again.

 

***

 

“We should take her to Weeping Turtle. She is of their kind.” A high, light voice says through the darkness.

“You know the rules, Longclaw. Weeping Turtle won’t like-”

“She’s dying!” this from Windwing.

“The way is closed to outsiders. We keep their secret. It is Weeping Turtle’s wish and after what she did for us how can we defy her only request? We owe her our lives.”

Alice feels the heavy shadow over her eyes begin to lift. A musk fills her nose, moisture tinging the air with the subtle scent of wet stone. Heat still burns through her but there’s a coolness to the air she can feel at the edges of the flames licking her. At her side, her arm feels strangely numb, the only part of her that doesn’t seem consumed in pain.

Looming forms circle her. She’s on her back, their clawed paws framing her shuddering body. A council of judges deciding her fate. It reminds her of her lessons about England’s parliament. In the dim light she watches their tails flick back and forth. Some curl in the air, forming question marks, others curve and snake around their body in a comma.

One turns and she can make out the profile of another gryphon. _A whole lot of them._ She never knew so many even existed in Wonderland.

“Sickness eats at her. She will die without our help.” Windwing again. There is gentle concern in his voice.

“Shall we have the blood of their kind on our beaks once again, Stonesong?” Longclaw – she assumes from the cadence of the voice – says.

All heads turn in the cave’s twilight to look at Stonesong, who stands at her feet, staring down at her.

“Those days are long dead.” A thoughtful silence follows, then, “We will take her to Weeping Turtle.”

Questions form on Alice’s lips but her voice does not obey, stalling in her throat. The edges of her vision trail inky tendrils of darkness.

Not again. _Stay conscious!_

But one clawed paw bumps her numb arm as they work together to lift her and agony blooms fiery and searing through her upper arm and back. This time it’s her scream that follower her as she mercifully welcomes oblivion.

 

***

 

_Into the Tortoise sea,_

_we’ll sing, we three,_

_we’ll sing to thee_

_and beg a boon_

_with hearts aglee._

 

_To school we now_

_And learn-ed be_

_For her ways are free_

_her what swims_

_In the great blue sea_

 

_Oh slee, oh slee_

_The coral heart in thee_

_For it was she_

_what brought us_

_And we’d not soon leave_

_the Tortoise sea_

 

A soft voice sings over the lace work of pain and fire, tugging Alice from the comfort of unawareness. Tugs her from blissful unfeeling into the arms of hurt and breaking fever. But the air is scented with sandalwood and hints of vanilla, soothing her ragged nerves a touch.

“She returns to herself,” a sing-song voice says.

Alice feels parched, the taste of days and ash in her mouth. Somewhere outside her scope to see a hand gives her a simple bone cup, polished smooth. With help, she tips it towards her cracked lips and nearly weeps with joy as the cool liquid slides down her throat. It’s infused with rose and cinnamon, filling her belly and lifting the remaining haze of sleep from her mind.

The room comes into focus. She’s abed in a thatched roof house with a simple stone hearth. Though small, the dwelling is covered in beautiful weavings, glass jars full of strange plants and grains of colored gems and dust which sparkle in the daylight streaming through a nearby window. A merry fire crackles in the hearth where a small pot bubbles over.

Tutting, a stout figure waddles over to the pot and removes it with the help of a thick wool mitt hanging on a peg to the side of the fireplace. They lower the flouted lip over another cup and pour in the contents. When the figure turns Alice realizes it’s a woman with long greying hair woven through with colored ribbons and flowers and wound about her head like a fae crown.

“There’s a trick to the taste. Lemon seed. Crushed at the half moon and left to dry on a north facing stone. But,” she sits at the edge of the bed, face crinkling into a small smile of sympathy, “there’s still a bite to it I’ve never quite worked out of it. Oh well, nothing to be done for it. Dying girls cannot be picky about their medicine.”

She motions for Alice to take the cup, miming lifting it to her lips and taking a drink.

“I’m dying?” The cup shakes in her hands.

“Quiet nearly. Poison will do that.” She pushes gently on the cup till Alice takes a deep drink.

It _does_ have a bite, reminding her of black coffee, but there is a hint of lemon that smooths the worst of it. In fact, it’s not all together unpleasant. The woman nods and pushes at the cup again. Alice finishes the drink and hands it back to her.

“Poison?”

The woman lifts Alice’s arm, wrapped in linens soaked in something that smells faintly like eucalyptus and safe. It’s sticky and cool and at the edges of the bandage she can see angry red lines streaking up like foreign veins to her bicep. She remembers the swordsman's cut. Just before she fell.

“But the fever breaks and the red snake retreats. The gryphons brought you just in time.”

_Windwing._

Then everything floods back to her and she tries to snap up into a sitting position.

“Will!”

“Easy child. You’re not free just yet. Poison is a sly devil. We must chase it from every dark corner it might try and hide or it will end you yet.”

She lets herself fall back under the gentle touch of the woman, head settling into a soft pillow. Fatigue rolls over her. How can she be so sleepy after all the time she’s been unconscious?

“Your body has been through an ordeal.” She studies Alice for a moment, those azure irises seeming to peel back layers of her soul. “Not many fight like I watched you fight.”

“Where am I?” How far from everyone had she fallen? Will would think her dead.

“A place that doesn’t exist.” A knife edge gleam enters her eyes. A warning.

“The gryphons…they mentioned a place called…Weeping Turtle. Is that where I am?” Alice wants more of the rose and cinnamon water. Everything within her feels dried and cracked, brittle bits waiting for a strong wind to crumble them to nothing.

At this the woman’s expression relaxes, the hint of a smile playing across her lips. “A person. Weeping Turtle is a person. Though some might claim she behaves like a nation unto herself.”

“What a strange name,” she mutters, more to herself than her companion.

“Better than the one she was born with,” the woman says, rising to set the cup on the nearby table. “I never did like Mock. Too magnetic to the cruelty of children who don’t know better.”

Alice’s eyes go wide. “You’re Weeping Turtle?”

A sad smile settles on her face. Her eyes glaze with nostalgia, drifting away from the present to a place only she can see. “Do you know gryphons have no name during the first years of their life? They earn their name and it tells a story to all other gryphons. They named me Weeping Turtle when they found me tear streaked under the hard shell of a shield. The war had swept through Brightshore and it was the only place for a young girl to hide. They could have killed me. Such were their orders in those days. But instead they called me Weeping Turtle and let me go.”

She turns back to Alice, eyes growing sharp with the present. “Years later I returned the kindness when I saved my people, shedding the name Mock Tort and I’ve been Weeping Turtle ever since.”

“You live in Brightshore?” Hope flares within her. So close to her end goal. Perhaps Will was here, carrying out his promise to her; find Cyrus and reunite them. Though, having watched her fall from the cliff, he would be bearing terrible news to Cyrus.

“Lived. Now I’m a child of nowhere. Not even the trees here owe their allegiance to anything but the soil they grow in. Safe from the reach of red witches and war.”

Alice’s heart sinks. There’s no way to know how far the gryphons brought her.

 _Oh, Will_. She looks down to the floor.

“They shouldn’t have brought you. I made them promise to never reveal this place to the outside world.” Weeping Turtle sighs, shoulders drooping. “But I cannot fault them. They’ve enough of our blood on their souls they can’t stand the idea of adding more. And Windwing trusts you, somehow, for all of the five minutes he’s known you. He’s a young one. Never saw battle like the others, still has hope. He named you Starfall Alice.”

 _Starfall Alice_. She turns it over in her mind.

“And so named, you’re one of them whether you like it or not. Besides, he seems to think you can help us, though he won’t explain why. Gryphons are terribly mysterious creatures.”

Alice looks up at this.  “Help you?”

Weeping Turtle purses her lips, growing solemn and contemplative. She’s debating something within herself. A cautious creature, Alice understands. There’s a hint of Iris in this proud woman. The moment she decides Alice can see a shift in her, a squaring of shoulders she finds intimately familiar.

Then Weeping Turtle returns to her side, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“I’ve not had much occasion to trust during my long life. Being hunted for my birthright has hardened me into an overly suspicious woman. You’ll forgive me though, as I see a look about you that says we are kin of a sort. Women who understand the violence of others that take what they want and leave us shucked like chaff, cast on the ground to wither and die. But you and I. We do not die easily it seems.

“I keep small council but the gryphons hold their place among it with dignity and wisdom I often aspire to, though they believe I am wiser.” She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her thin lips. “So maybe, you did fall from the sky, like a star, to grant us a wish and restore my people to their home.”

Alice finally finds her voice. She wants to say, _I’m just Alice_ , but instead, “Your people?” comes out.

“The _Portalis_. The gatekeepers, wielders of doorways to other realms beyond imagining.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something to note about me...I often have grand plans for shortness in my work. I tell myself that I will keep it simple and sweet. A tidbit tale for an appetizer. Nibble on this and move on with your life.
> 
> But, I don't DO small. Though I try. My friends will tell you, I don't write in small measure when working on my personal novels. So, even as I thought this might be a short tale, Alice and Will told me they had a grand tale still left within them. And I'm at the mercy of my muse, I must give her her due.
> 
> All that to say...this will never be as short as I once boasted it might be. Take it as you will, a blessing or a curse. 
> 
> Love to my readers. You make it worthwhile to continue.


	9. Where There's a Will...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will does realize one thing, these men are coordinated, working together like a Queen’s Guard unit. He’s seen these moves before. They’re herding, squeezing in at their quarry’s sides to send them fleeing towards the far side, which sits open and inviting._
> 
> _Too open._
> 
> A trap.

Moonlight plays across the genie’s face, highlighting his jawline as it casts his neck in shadow, eyes gleaming bright despite the lackluster light. Behind Will, Aayushmaan gasps. Before he can turn the sorcerer pushes past him, stopping in front of Cyrus. Shaking hands reach out to gently touch the sides of Cyrus’ face.

“I see her face in yours.”

“Who?” Cyrus doesn’t pull away, though confusion is plain on his face.

“Amara.”

“She’s my mother.” He turns away from Aayushmaan, looking back at Will. “Where is Alice?”

The words halt in his throat, burning hot as a brand. He can’t tell Cyrus about the fall, doesn’t want to plant even the tiniest seed of doubt that they’ll recover her, so he simply says, “She’s lost in the mountains.”

Not even Aayushmaan corrects him, his eyes riveted to the genie’s face, like he’s looking at a ghost. “Your…mother?” The last word drops off in soft reverence. It looks as though the sorcerer is trying to puzzle through something and the truth of it all has begun to dawn on him.

But Cyrus isn’t listening to him, he’s stepping towards Will, an earnest look on his face. “Where in the mountains?”

Behind Cyrus, the sorcerer’s face darkens and Will’s instincts flash into bright awareness. Without thought he pulls Cyrus out of Aayushmaan’s grasp just as the sorcerer’s long fingers begin to reach for him. Cyrus’ cry is cut short as Will places himself between him and danger.

The sorcerer snarls, eyes narrowing into feral slits that remind Will of a Bandersnatch. Aayushmaan’s lips curl back, white teeth gleaming in the twilight.

“Mate, you’re gonna wanna rethink whatever you’re planning.” The words come out confident but Will knows there’s little he can do against a sorcerer. Still, he’s willing to try. His dagger slips into his hands, the leather wrapped hilt comfortable in his grip. When had he become so familiar with a weapon?

_Alice_.

He misses her in that moment, tightening his grip as he takes a stance she taught him.

Aayushmaan hisses. “Are you Son of Jafar?” There’s a hint of desperation in the sorcerer’s tone, as though he’s hoping – even as he’s preparing – that it isn’t true. Power crackles at the ready in his palm and Will’s reminded of the danger standing in front of them. All he has is the power of three wishes, but those require careful thought or they might end up hurting more than helping.

A sword slides free of its sheath, a raspy breath of steel against stiff leather.

“I am not the son of that man,” Cyrus says, his voice thick with anger.

Some of the lightning flashing in Aayushmaan’s eyes diminishes, his shoulders slumping slightly. But he keeps raw power fresh and ready in his hand, not quiet believing. “Not Jafar’s son? Then who’s?”

Will can practically hear the thoughts running through the sorcerer’s head. Had Amara taken a lover after they’d parted ways? He didn’t know much about the sorceress but she didn’t seem fickle when it came to her heart.

“How’s about we lower our weapons and talk about this like normal gentlemen?” Will looks between the genie and the scowling sorcerer and clears his throat. “Well, as normal as the three of us can muster, given you’re a genie, you’re a sorcerer, and I’m a thief.”

The power zapping and arcing in Aayushmaan’s dark palm isn’t overly bright, but in contrast to the dusky grey twilight surrounding them, there’s a chance their little standoff could be noticed by a late-night observer. He doesn’t want to hang around waiting to see what the townsfolk think of this strange trio standing on their shore.

“I've had quite enough of sorcerers and their demands,” Cyrus says, coming to stand beside Will.

_Bloody heroes_ , Will thinks, stepping between the two again. Alice would kill him if, in the final leg of the journey, he managed to get Cyrus killed.

_And what does this make you Will?_ Alice's amused voice. He can picture the twinkle in his eyes.

_Never wanted to be a hero_. But Alice had a way of bringing out that quality in people, even a lowly thief.

Should have left the sorcerer back at the inn. Not to mention he needs Cyrus alive in order to hone in on Alice. To use their magical bond to suss her out. Even though the charm was broken, Cyrus should still be able to feel her, right? He hopes. If not, he plans to use one of his wishes to lower himself down to her.

But that meant he needed to get control of the situation, and fast. Daytime would not wait for them to squabble and duel on the beach and getting across Shoreline had taken precious time. They would need to sneak their way back too.

Time ticks in his head. Each minute spent in this back and forth was another minute Alice was alone and possibly hurt.

The nearness of Cyrus prickles at him too. Reminds him of who owns Alice's heart. Who owns her Happily Ever After.

_I was there. It was your name on her lips as she fell._ Aayushmaan's earlier observation rings coldly through his head.

“There are answers to go around, but I think it's best we do them far from the ears of Shoreline.” As he says it Will becomes acutely aware of something _wrong_ with the air around them. At first he thinks it might be the shift in tide or the way Aayushmaan's eyes narrow into thought. But the more he focuses on it, the more the skin at his back pinches with a sense he's come to trust over the years. His thief sense, Alice calls it.

_Danger._

And not the kind in robes holding raw power as a weapon.

He very suddenly wants _away_ from the beach and into the cloak of shadow that rims the edge of Shoreline. He can feel eyes on him and swivels towards the darkened silhouette of the village. No sign of anyone but he continues to feel the nerves under his skin shout a warning.

_Time to go._

“We really need to get out of here.”

Cyrus pulls his gaze from the sorcerer long enough to give Will a concerned look. “What is it, Will?”

“Trouble.” Will holds the bottle up. “It'd be easier to sneak with you in the bottle-”

Cyrus's voice drops low, the hint of growl beneath the timber of his reply. “I'm _not_ going back in that bottle.”

Will considers. He can't fault the guy. He hated his time as a genie. It’d been the unforeseeable consequence of saving Alice. Later, when Cyrus had been returned to his leash, Will couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t like feeling trapped.

Opening one side of his coat, he stuffs the bottle into a large inner pocket. The shape is bulky against his chest, but there's little chance of it falling out. “Fair enough, but you step where I step, understood?”

Cyrus nods, sheathing his sword. They both look at Aayushmaan.

“What'll it be, sorcerer? Shall we duel it out on the beach or can we save the twenty questions till we've time to play?” Will eyes Aayushmaan, trying to size up how the man will reply.

He seems inclined to fight but then the light sparking in his palm winks out and he straightens with a look at Cyrus. He doesn't speak but instead gives a curt nod.

“Then, we're off,” Will says, turning back towards the way they came. He doesn't much like having the sorcerer at his back but neither does he want Aayushmaan miss-stepping on his way back out of the town and alerting someone to their presence. Cyrus takes up the position behind him, a tall shadow with coal dark hair.

They snake around to the eastern side of Shoreline, where the shadows are at their longest now that the moon is hanging heavy over the western ridge. Dawn – such as it is in Shoreline – is only a few hours off.

They're at the edge of a ramshackle house, now abandoned, when Will hears a footfall not belonging to him or his companions, crouched and motionless as they are. He strains to pinpoint a direction.

It sounds as though they're heading away from their location but the hollow, ghost like hush over the town muffles the steps.

“Will?” Cyrus asks, voice barely a whisper.

“Footsteps.”

The sound fades enough that Will motions them forward. They cut to the right, slipping through an opening in a yard's fencing. Here the grass is taller than in most places where the villagers have tried to tame the wild growth. It provides covering and runs the length of two streets before dumping them on the other side of Shoreline. Will crouches low until the grass conceals him, then inches forward.

This house, unlike the others at the edge of Shoreline, looks as though it is lived in, despite its unkempt yard. A few goats mill around but don't seem to care that there is an opening big enough for them to escape through. They're content to munch on the reedy grass. On the porch a small torch under a glass dome flickers weakly, the last of its oil reserves likely depleted after a full night's use.

He's half way through the yard when a chill races through his veins. He can't name the cause, only that he's felt it before, right before something bad is about to happen. It's a reaction that's saved his life many times over. Will halts, his companions going still behind him. This time, neither of them dare raise their voice to ask him what's wrong.

Something moves in the grass. Something larger than a goat.

Will can't tell just yet if it's human or something _other_. He cranes his neck to the sides, trying to see through the cover. But just as it's concealed him, so too has it hidden whatever is in the yard with them. In his peripheral he can see Cyrus tilt his head towards the sound as well. He scans the grass, eyes dark and unreadable in the grey murk of early morning.

Again, rustling. Whatever is moving is at least _trying_ to be quiet. Intent tells him it’s likely not a wild animal.

Then a sound on the opposite side pulls his attention. It's separate of the first. Then another at their backs.

Will braves a look above the edge of the grass. Dark shapes, looming and numerous, close in around them, dispensing with the pretense of concealment.

_Surrounded._

Several appear to be carrying something, arms elongated into taffy-stretched shadows. Weapons?

Will ducks back into the cover but knows it won't be long till they're upon their hiding spot.

“What should we do?” Cyrus whispers so low Will isn’t sure if he actually heard the genie or it he imagined it.

How had they cornered them so quickly? This felt like a coordinated attack. Skilled and prepared. Had they been waiting for them?

But that raises the question of how. If they knew why he and Alice would be coming to Shoreline then why not just take the genie for themselves?

“We run.” It’s terrible and dangerous but it’s the only option they have; there’s no backtracking to the safety of the outskirts. “Now.” He hisses and leaps up, aiming for the opposite side of the yard. He only casts a single glance back to make sure Cyrus and Aayushmaan have followed suit then he’s sprinting towards their escape.

A cry goes up among the encroaching men, launching them into action. All attempt at hiding is cast aside and Will’s shocked at how many rise from the grass and step out from the shadows of the porch. They’re completely surrounded.

Still, he runs.

He hears someone calling orders with authority. The voice is familiar but he can’t understand why. He’s never been to Shoreline before.

Will does realize one thing, these men are coordinated, working together like a Queen’s Guard unit. He’s seen these moves before. They’re herding, squeezing in at their quarry’s sides to send them fleeing towards the far side, which sits open and inviting.

Too open.

_A trap._

Will skids to a stop just as five men spring up from the grass at the edge of the yard and box them in.

“It’s a fight then, is it?” Will snaps at the inky shadows. He inches backwards till his back is flush with Cyrus’, who’s already drawn his sword and turned to face the men behind them. Aayushmaan’s power begins to pool in his palms, casting dull light onto the sharp face-planes of grim men. Hard eyes glint like steel and flint, lips set into thin immovable lines – they’ve the look of men who’ve known a hard life.

This isn’t going to be pretty, even with a sorcerer on their side.

Then a lone figure steps forward through the formidable masses. In the dull silvery light of a falling moon and Aayushmaan’s crackling orb of lightning, Will can just make out the face of the man who approaches. The closer he gets, the more the knot in Will’s stomach tightens. He recognizes the man, though the years have altered his face some, added age lines and a touch of grey to his raven dark hair.

The Queen of Heart’s former Captain of the Guard.

“Hello, Knave.” His lips curl into a sharp sneer, half manic glee, half dark intent.

The eyes of his companions swing towards him; Cyrus’ grip loosens on his sword but Aayushmaan grows the power in his hand, ready for Will’s leave to strike.

“Fancy meeting you here, Allistar.” Will looks around to the men encircling them. “Nice greeting party you got here. Though, you didn’t have to get outta bed just to see us out of town. I know how you need your beauty sleep.” Probably not wise to antagonize the guy, given how they’d parted ways, but Will can’t help himself.

The sneer drops from his face, replaced by the stoic calm inherent in the man’s demeanor. It’d always rankled Will that no matter what evil the Queen sent them to do, Allistar’s wall never seemed to break. Almost as though he were afraid to show how much he enjoyed the work. Now, there’s fissures running all through his steady façade. Like a porceline mask cracking and peeling back to reveal the wearer underneath.

“Did you think you could come into my town and leave without a word?” Allistar moves closer, pushing them into the waiting men at their backs. Will doesn’t like how small the space around them is growing. There won’t be much room for a dagger soon, let alone a sword.

“You never call, you never write. How was I to know you’d earned yourself a cozy little town on the beach as thanks for your years of murderous commitment?” Will scans the group for an opening, any weak link in the chain forming around them.

“Ever the wise ass. The Queen tolerated your insolence because it pleased her to watch to pretend you had control over your life. But I always thought she should have taken your head and decorated her courtyard with it.”

“Knave, the window, even one made in faith, narrows,” Aayushmaan mutters under his breath, though he doesn’t try to hide his words. They’re surrounded after all. But Will knows he’s reminding him their chance to recover Alice is growing dangerously thin.

As if he needs reminding. It’s all he can seem to think of at the moment.

“I’d love to stay and reminisce about the good ol’ military days with you and the boys,” None of them looked familiar in truth, “but I need to be going, so if you would…” Will motions for them to part the way and let them through. A ripple of humor races through the group, several turning to looking at each other like, _‘Can you believe this guy?’_

“Aayushmaan!” Will shouts, leaping for the man nearest him, whose head is turned away from them. Behind him, the early morning sky lights up with the sorcerer’s power. He can hear Cyrus’ sword thunk against the thick wood of one of the group’s bats.

Colliding into the solid – and fairly large – body of his target, Will feels the world tilt off its axis as they both go down. The surprise of his attack only buys him a few minutes of the upper hand and soon the man has twisted free from underneath him and started to grapple him into a restrained cuff. His knife finds flesh but the man hardly seems to notice the blood as it trails down his forearm.

His other meaty arm is closing around Will’s throat as his wounded one begins to tighten around his blade wielding hand, squeezing. Precious airflow starts to ebb, veining Will’s vision with pulsing fingers of red-white lightning.

Bucking up his back up with his legs he relieves some of the pressure and oxygen begins to flow again. He even manages to roll and break the man’s grip. Mud cakes him, coating his face as the grass whips at his exposed skin. On his back now, he can see Cyrus fighting between two burly men, but a third begins to close in at the genie’s back.

Aayushmaan is throwing everything he has at Allistar and yet…

“What the bloody hell?” Will’s stunned into stillness by what he sees, forgetting the large man he’d just been fighting even as the man scrambles through the mud and grass towards him.

Allistar is unaffected by Aayushmaan’s magic. Even his ability to manipulate bodies isn’t doing anything. The former Captain moves step by step closer, the cracks in his once stony wall appearing as a wide, toothy smile Will doesn’t like the look of, not one bit. He begins to laugh and it’s the sound of someone half mad. The sorcerer drops the magic, face slack with disbelief.

“How?” Will utters in a quiet voice that still manages to sound loud over the din of Cyrus’ struggle and Allister’s laughter. The rest of the group remains in position, as though they know there is no real fight here.

Allistar pulls up one sleeve of his dirty, threadbare tunic to reveal a silver cuff. Just under the edge of his other sleeve, Will can spot a second silver cuff.

“When you betrayed The Queen, things became increasingly harder on all of us. Your bothers in arms fell under critical attention, Knave, thanks to you and your _Alice_.” Allistar says her name with a sneer and from the corner of his eye, Will can see Cyrus stiffen.

“What, those bunch of thugs? My brothers? You’re having a laugh.” He tries to pull the conversation away from Alice.

Allistar’s sneer turns into a full smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I heard you came back to Wonderland for her. Risked old grudges just to help her. You had to know that if we crossed paths it was going to end this way. And yet, you came. For her.”

“What way? With you talking me to death?” At the edge of his vision Will catches the sharp turn of Cyrus’ head. The genie is staring at him but he’s unsure if it’s because Will’s doing everything he can to rile Allistar or because the former captain’s words struck a chord with him.

“Where is she? I’d hoped to deliver this delicious retribution to both of you.” Allistar touches one of his cuffs, rubbing a thumb along the metal, a flick of his tongue slipping across his lips.

“You lay a land on Alice and I’ll cut it off of you,” Cyrus spits out through clenched teeth.

Allistar draws back in mock horror. “A threat, how gentlemanly of you to defend the lady’s honor. What is this? Another suitor? Another man come to die for Alice? Pathetic.”

Will needs to draw Allistar’s attention away from Cyrus, bring it back onto him before the genie leaps across the distance and tries to plunge that sword into the man’s chest. “So you got me. Congratulations. What’s your plan here? You want my head?”

The growing light casts Allistar’s face into a grisly contortion of hollwo mirth and malice. “Eventually, Knave. For now I’ll settle for your surrender.” He snaps his fingers and the circle tightens. “It’d be pointless to fight, unless you want to see your blood coat the ground. You might even take some of my guys down, but your sorcerer is useless against me. See, I struck a bargain with the Dark One the last time he came to these parts. The cuffs make me immune to most magic. Especially body manipulation.”

Will scans the enclosing men. They’re ready to fight, it’s clear, but it would be a quick and bloody battle, outnumbered and surrounded as they are. He knows when it’s time to surrender and live to fight another day. So long as Allistar doesn’t plan to kill him this moment there is still time to find a way out of this later. Especially with the help of three wishes. He sheathes his blade, nodding at Cyrus to follow suite. He raises his hands, threading them behind his head in a gesture he’s all too familiar with…but, there’s something he has to know…

“How did you know I’d be here?” It’s eating away at him. This whole think reeked of planning. Of knowledge Allistar shouldn’t have had.

“The Caterpillar was all too eager to trade me the information. Bind them.” Allistar motions to his companions, who – in turn – swarm and begin to reach for their wrists. Cyrus begrudgingly gives up his sword, with a last glance to Will who can’t meet his eyes just yet, afraid his feelings will shine through his eyes and betray him. Aayushmaan drops his hands and allows himself to be bound but the expression on his face promises retribution.

Allistar steps up close to Will as the large man he’d fought with before winds rope about his wrists, cinching it so tight it makes him wince. A hand – pale and flashing with silver – snakes into the dark between his coat and chest, snatching out the bottle.

“I’ll take this.”

Will struggles but he’s already bound, held in place by the tight grip of the man at his back as well. “I’ve touched the bottle. He isn’t yours to command until I spend my wishes.”

Allistar stares at the bottle, that smug smile on his face again. “I’ll enjoy coming up with ways to force you to use them. Starting with Alice. I’ve already sent men into the mountains to find her. Where you are, she is.”

“She has nothing to-“

Rage ripples over Allistar’s face, replacing the smile with an open mouth bellow. “She has _everything_ to do with this! Where is she?”

When Will doesn’t respond, the former captain turns away, holding the bottle up. Dull light glances off the surface, highlighting the intricate scroll work on the metal.

“No matter,” now he’s calmer, “she’ll come for you. The Caterpillar told me as much. Where there’s a Will, there’s an Alice.” This last part he says in an almost sing-song voice as though it were a lyric from a children’s nursery rhyme.

“She won’t come for me,” Will says, heart fluttering with fear. Half due to whatever Allistar’s plans are for her and in half for the precious time this will steal from their rescue. He doesn’t even care that Cyrus can hear this exchange, all he cares about it trying to get back to her. _Find her._ And he knows, but won’t say, that there is no way she can come for him if she’s dead.

If she’s broken – how had Aayushmaan put it? _Like so many eggs_ , that’s right – on the stones.

Regret fills him. He should never have let Alice make a deal with that conniving bastard. Hope begins to slip away from him as he’s jostled forward. He stumbles, following after Cyrus and Aayushmaan towards the nearby house.

Allistar turns back to him, lowering the bottle as he falls in stride beside Will. “Oh, Knave. That’s where you’re wrong. She’ll come. And when she does, the fun can begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot, she thickens! This chapter took a small turn away from my more introspective chapters (I do so love those) but hopefully you still enjoyed it. There is more to come before Alice and Will can - maybe - finally, FINALLY admit what's really in their hearts.


	10. Requests of Heart and Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Weeping leads her through a thin space that appears as nothing more than a shadow, and down a dark hallway that’s tight and uninviting. Eventually, hints of light flicker along the walls, making the darkness dance. The hallway opens to a large cavern and Alice is shocked by the presence of so much life buried under the mountain._
> 
> _There’s an entire village in the cavern, built right into the walls – a shanty town made of brightly painted boards nailed into colorful amalgamations that resemble houses._

She’s back in her cell in Bethlem. The part of her mind that understands – _holds to_ – logic, tells her this is a dream; she escaped that place long ago. But the part that feels, that runs wild with fear, tells her she’s trapped once again in the darkness, left till the days melt into nights, eventually congealing into a sluggish river that streams by her.

And soon, they’ll come for her. They always do. To pick, to needle, to curl their razor sharp words into the tender parts of her heart and mind. How do they always seem to know just where to stick them so they’ll do the most damage?

This time, they’ll take everything. She’s sure of it.

She can hear them whisper outside the door, hear the clank of shiny metallic objects with names too sterile for their purpose.

Then from outside the dark, from a place of campfire light, she hears his voice. Hears her name on his lips. It’s laced with snark. But it’s gooey warm all the same, spreading through her and chasing away the shiver-shuddering cold.

He’s chiding their latest adventure but she’s laughing as he describes their frantic antics.

She knows it’s the hint of a memory but she clings to it, desperate to surround herself in the nearness of his presence. If she can only reach a hand out, brush fingers along his sharp jaw line, reassure herself he’s real – _she’s real_ – then perhaps this nightmare will fall away.

But the door creaks open, long, sinuous forms sliding through the grey hollow of her cell with stretched limbs and elongated necks; their stark white coats are splattered in crimson. She scrambles into the corner, willing herself to fall through the wall into another place – _Please, anywhere!_ – before they can touch her.

But here, she has no magic, no weapon to wield against them. Once again at their mercy. And they wrench a whimper from her as their gloved hands – cold as winter – close over her arms and legs.

“It’s time, Alice,” a low voice says, its owner raising an object up till it catches the lackluster light from the hallway. _The needle and hammer_. One tap, one tiny tippy-tap, and they’ll take it all, remove her from herself and leave her a shell. They’ll _heal_ her.

This time she bellows a single name as they take her. She won’t realize till she wakes and shakes away the remnants of the dream that the name she cries has changed from Cyrus to…

_…Will._

***

 

Vertigo spins Alice round as she surfaces from the dream, the sound of her own hoarse scream echoing through her head. She’s tangled up in soft off-white sheets that smell of lavender and lemon, nearly falling from the bed as a hand reaches out to steady her.

“There, there!” Weeping Turtle eases her back till she’s stable, then sits beside her on the bed. “That was a bad one.”

Sweat-slick hair clings to Alice’s face and neck. She tries to brush it away, feeling in the moment as though it’s choking her. When the motions grow frantic, Weeping Turtle soothes her with a gentle ‘shushing’ sound, reaching to pull her claw-curled hands away from her skin.

Already she can feel the agitation from the desperate scratching. Her neck is likely blush-red where the hair still lingers.

Weeping Turtle slowly pulls at the strands, brushing them back behind an inflamed ear. Reaching towards a small table beside the bed she pulls a damp cloth from a wooden bowl and wipes it along Alice’s hot skin. The last of the hair falls away from her neck and face, allowing Alice to breathe easier.

It feels foolish, to panic from such a sensation as hair sticking to one’s neck but everything rubs so raw.

The cool of the rag begins to warm from the heat of her skin till eventually Weeping Turtle pulls it away and returns it to the bowl.

“There, is that better?”

Alice nods. “Yes, thank you.”

“Have you had these nightmares long?”

 _Since Bethlem._ In truth, she thought they’d gone away, for a time, while searching for Cyrus. Being on the road again, with Will, full of faith…it’d chased the worst of them away. With Ana’s death, they’d returned with a vengeance, taking on a sharper, crueler quality that left her weary-worn and chipped away at her stores of hope. “For some time now.” She doesn’t elaborate.

Weeping Turtle helps her sit up, handing her the bone cup for another dose of medicine. She’s been downing a cup twice a day now for two days. With each dose the red snake – as Weeping called it – retreats further and further along her arm. Now, it was nearly returned to its origin: the cut. Which has started to scab and knit thanks to Weeping’s poultices.

Had she not been so foggy with waves of fever and too-real dreams she might have chaffed at the time spent in bed, but it’s all she can do to keep her mind focused on fighting the infection. Weeping Turtle believes it will only be a matter of a few more cups before she can safely proclaim Alice saved.

Alice rests the cup on her lap, stroking the smooth surface. Her companion looks as though she wants to say something. Cocking her head, Alice purses her lips while Weeping Turtle decides.

Sighing, the older woman’s eyes narrow in a scrutinizing way that seems to peel back all the layers Alice has slipped over her heart to protect it. A shiver races up her spine.

“The name you call…in your dreams. This is someone special to you.” Not a question.

“A name?” She was crying out in her sleep?

“Will.”

The sound of his name in the small room sets her heart racing. She aches to see his face in someplace other than her dreams. Did he believe her dead? She can see his face over the shoulder of her attacker on the mountain top. Can see the sheer determination on his face as he struggled to reach her in time. Had he fought Jafar’s man? Was _he_ still alive?

In her heart, she knows he is alive. She can feel it.

Her hand travels up from the cup to the heated plane just under her collar bone. She can _feel_ it. Shock ripples through her. Where once she felt the surety of Cyrus blazing like a beacon she could follow, she now feels the firelight warmth of something – _someone_ – else. A comfort and peace that wants to envelope her, if she’ll let it. A beautiful fire that wants to consume her, if she’ll give it tinder.

“Is something wrong?” Weeping Turtle asks, drawing her from her silence.

At that moment she registers her neck is bare, the pendant missing. Then she remembers the snap, the slow free fall, the look of Will’s face as the clouds separated them. And his name, the last words she thought she’d ever say.

“I lost something,” she says, half-dazed.

“Was it important?”

“Once,” she says without thought and realizes it’s the truth. A sweet sting pricks at her heart, tears springing to the corners of her eyes as it fully settles over her. “Once upon a time.”

“We all lose something important along the way, my dear.” Her eyes glaze over with a faraway look. Thinking of her own unfortunate losses. Friends, family…how many had the Queen’s war taken from Weeping Turtle?

Ana’s own war had taken much from Alice and though she’d forgiven the Red Queen for her part in everything she couldn’t quite forgiven what she’d taken from Will.

“How much longer? I…I need to find someone.” Alice hasn’t forgotten Cyrus. And while Weeping has been a kind, if not stern, caregiver, she’s ready to finally complete her mission. Find – and free – Cyrus.

The thought doesn’t bring her as much joy as it once did.

 _Because the Ever After has changed._ She’d planned to spend the rest of her days with Cyrus. See if he wanted to return with her to London and meet her family. Finally prove to them that Wonderland existed and she wasn’t crazy.

But now that future feels hollow, grey like the streets of her home. Something within her has shifted and the prospect of walking away from one man into the arms of another…

Alice shakes her head, tumbling the thoughts around till they grow quiet and sullen, slipping into the shadows once more. First, she needs to find Cyrus. Then she can sort out her feelings.

“Another day, maybe two.” Weeping Turtle unwraps her arm, checking the veins of red, which have lost some of their intense hue thanks to the medicine.

“The fevers have stopped.” A weak protest given how utterly terrible Alice still feels.

“Yes, but the poison is not fully eradicated. To stop medication now would be to ensure it returns. And with a stronger hold. No, we must beat it back fully or I will not be able to pull you from death’s door so readily the next time.” Weeping re-wraps her arm with new bandages. The cool paste from the herbs and ointment slathered on the gauze forces the heat down, soothing the still agitated skin. Thinking, Weeping adds, “But, you do have need of fresh air. Perhaps a walk might help chase the dreams away.”

 

***

 

This is the first time she’s seeing the tiny mountain-hewn village from anywhere other than Weeping Turtle’s window. Though, had the healer not told her there was a village out there in the crags and cracks of the mountain bowl, Alice would never have known it was out there.

Weeping Turtle’s people had become one with their stony surroundings, carving out hollows and narrow slips through the grey, such that were someone not observing with a keen eye, they’d glance right over the entrance to someone’s home.

The only structure that resembles a traditional home is Weeping’s and it sits squarely in the center of the mountain bowl’s lowest point. Hearty trees no taller than Alice dot a make-shift yard of stubby grasses, wild flowers – mountain laurel and sage with little yellow flowers – and a carefully laid path of quartz-veined stones lead which lead from the front door to a small clearing. It’s clear all the stones have been carefully cleared from the pavilion but that’s the only other outward sign of established life.

Weeping leads her through a thin space that appears as nothing more than a shadow, and down a dark hallway that’s tight and uninviting. Eventually, hints of light flicker along the walls, making the darkness dance. The hallway opens to a large cavern and Alice is shocked by the presence of so much _life_ buried under the mountain.

There’s an entire village in the cavern, built right into the walls – a shanty town made of brightly painted boards nailed into colorful amalgamations that resemble houses. Hodge-podge and eclectic, no two buildings look the same. There’s one with beautiful sconces and relief work – gargoyles and gryphons and Bandersnatch’s and a myriad other creatures Alice has no name for – carved into large blocks of wood and another is sleek and narrow, like an obsidian glass tower right out of a fairytale, with stained glass windows. Light dances behind the glass, casting a rippling, water-like reflection on the ground below.

A thoroughfare makes a ring around a large meeting area where a shaft of thin, honey pale light leaks in from a crack in the ceiling. It illuminates a small garden at the center where vines heavy with melons and strawberries grow. There’s vegetable plants and herbs and a small hive on a stand, abuzz with bees going about their pollinating business. Two women work in the garden, hands and clothes dusted in dark brown soil, hair piled in messy buns on their heads, while another coaxes hive honey free from behind a netted hat and long-sleeved apron.

Alice turns on her heel, jaw dropping as she takes it all in. There’s curious glances through dark doorways and from under wavy metal awnings and marble archways. To the far side she spies a squat, mint green building with white, handmade shutters. Dozens of hanging metal stars cast pinpricks of light onto the building, multi-colored by the glass covering the hundreds of tiny holes in the metalwork. Purples, greens, deep sea blues and rich blood reds, all twinkling like constellations.

Another house, to her left, is made of hundreds of window panes. For privacy the glass has been etched with different designs. Floral, vine, animal, forest: each beautifully detailed and intricate, covering the glass in milk white opaqueness. Behind them she notices shadows moving, eyes peeking between the lines of artwork.

Faraway she can hear the sound of running water; a hidden aquifer has been diverted – in part – along a small channel carved into the stone floor. It gurgles and chatters as it passes, filling the cavern with a soft bubbling sound Alice found soothing. One tendril curls near her position and she looks down into the cool liquid, her reflection bobbing and distorting as the water goes along its merry way.

“What is this place?” Alice finally asks, turning to face Weeping Turtle.

“Brightshore. Well, what I managed to save.”

“But, the village by the sea–”

Weeping waves a hand, a scowl on her face. “A husk full of greedy men and vicious women. Not even the children grow up right there. There’s a sickness in the land and it alters any who place their roots there. Shoreline is the ghost of what we once were.”

Alice scans Brightshore, mouth agape once again. “You moved them all here?”

“Those that I could. Holding a portal, even one within the same land and dimension, takes a lot of energy when a hundred people have to pass through it.”

The White Rabbit had once mentioned fatigue as part of the cost for his magic, and he’d only every ported two, maybe three people, at a time.

“I’ve kept this place a secret for nearly my whole life.” Something in Weeping’s tone brings Alice’s gaze back to the older woman. Her face is drawn and dark. A warning. “The only other beings who know this place exists are the gryphons because those I couldn’t get through the portal before it collapsed were flown here on their backs. The act,” she swallows hard, emotion cutting through the stony chill of her earlier expression, “cost us and them dearly.”

Alice feels the weight of loss in those words.

“You have my word, Weeping Turtle, I will not utter a word about this place to anyone.” She reaches out a hand – not the one with the cut, it stings still – to rest on Weeping’s shoulder.

 _Not even Cyrus? Will?_ Was she not already keeping plenty of secrets from the both of them?

 _I’ll sort that later._ But her heart thumps, pulse quickening at the thought of it all. It tells her, _You already know where the chips will fall, love._

“I believe you Alice. I have to. The alternative, well I don’t like to think on the alternative.” Her words, though seemingly innocuous, hold the thread of a threat. Alice is certain, if Weeping needed to, the healer could easily become the killer. To protect her people, what cost wouldn’t she pay? What cost hadn’t she already paid?

“Why bring me here? Why let me see this? If there was any doubt…” Her hand drops away, eyes drawn back to the marvelous sight of this hidden town. More people gather at darkened egresses, whispering to each other and pointing.

When was the last time someone new had come to this place? Likely a lifetime.

Weeping reaches into a pocket, hidden among the many folds and layers of her skirt, and removes a small dagger and its wristlet sheath.

Alice gasps, longing to grab it from the woman. Barely containing the urge she hisses through clenched teeth, trying for polite and sounding far more blunt than she intends. “I’d like that back.”

“Such an intimate place, the wrist. It’s a place of confidence too. A woman who hides blades on her body has knowledge of their uses. This is well cared for, maintained, cleaned and sharpened to an atom’s width.”

“What do you know of atoms?” Alice asks, fingers itching to reach for the knife.

Weeping smiles, looking at the blade. “I traveled to many places before the war, with my father. He was a merchant. Owned the _Sea Witch_. Finest portalship I’ve ever seen. She gleamed like polished tiger’s eye and cut the water like a knife.” She slips the blade from of its sheath, turning it over in her palm. “Be it steel or ship, I’ve seen what a blade in the right hands can do.”

She gently slides the small dagger back into its sheath and holds it out to Alice. When Alice reaches for it, Weeping holds tight, pulling her in close.

“You fell for a reason, Alice. Just like I was found by the gryphons, so too, were you found by them for a reason.”

Alice can’t look away from Weeping’s startling vulnerable and intense eyes. Something tugs at her heart, filling her full of emotion she can’t define. Fate? Destiny? Any name it might have burns too bright to see. A sense of _rightness_ washes over her, directly at war with her desire to find Cyrus.

_And Will._

Weeping Turtle releases the sheath, pulling back. Alice wraps it back around her wrist, sighing as the last tie cinches closed. Despite the yellowed shift she wears and the clean but tangled mess of her hair, she feels whole in that moment.

“What reason could that be?” Alice has a hard time believing in destiny much anymore. Those are the ideals and hopes of a young, naïve girl who once believed in happy endings.

“We’ve lived so long in the shadows here. Afraid of the outside world. I would see us restored. Would see the power of the _Portalis_ infuse Shoreline and return it to the home I love. We’ve made as much of a home here as we could. But it’s never truly felt right. We weren’t a people made for the mountains. We need to be on the sea, traveling between worlds.”

“If you, if the _Portalis_ , can open portals, why stay here? Why not leave to another place? Surely, in all your travels – or theirs – there is a world you could make a new home in.” Alice looks over the people who’ve now stepped from their hidden places of observation to stand boldly in the rings of light from a dozen street lamps.

“Brightshore is our home. _Our_ birthright. There is no other place for us but at the sea’s side. And,” Weeping turns to her, eyes drawn, “the time grows short.”

Alarm ripples through Alice. “Short? In what way?”

Weeping Turtle laughs, though it’s hollow and a bit cynical. The laugh of a woman who’s seen too much and little of it joyful. “Age comes to us all, Alice. I want to see my people stand on Brightshore sands again. I want to watch the ships sail through portals to another realm and, finally, lay my nightmares to rest.” There’s an understanding look in the woman’s eyes. A kinship of shared experience. Alice isn’t the only one to suffer bloodthirsty dreams.

“You’re…dying?” The notion strikes her hard filling her with surprising grief. Such a short time and yet Alice feels a bond with the plump healer. Feels as though they might have been grand friends, once upon a time.

“I’ve time yet.” Weeping waves away any sentiment or concern but her eyes glimmer with unshed tears as she looks over her people. “But not so long that I can wait. If I wish to see this future come to pass.”

“What can I do?”

“There is a man. The Queen’s old Captain of the Guard. He moved into Brightshore at the tail end of the war, just before the final massacre. He was a charming and cunning man. Or so it seemed. We took him in, thought him a defector of The Queen of Heart’s army. We gave him refuge and he led her right to our heart. Allowed her to strike at us deeply enough we nearly bleed dry. In those days, I had a few charms I’d kept from my father’s merchant days. Little bits of magic he’d collected because he knew how I loved to sit them in bottles on my window sill.

“I used most of them in the fight, but I saved the last for him. A little curse my father had been loath to give me but in the end I’d convinced him I would handle it with care and responsibility. I’m not sure it was with care or responsibility, but I cursed him before I fled with my people.”

Alice had had limited run-ins with the former Captain of the Guard, but none of them had been pleasant. One encounter had been particularly nasty. She shudders to remember the cold, heartless gleam in Allistar’s eyes. He’d promised retribution on her and though she’d told him they would never cross paths again, a small voice told her they weren’t done.

“You cursed him?” That was hefty magic indeed. Where had her father obtained such a rare item?

“The _Curse of the Rooted Tree_. He can never leave Shoreline. Only death will set him free.”

“You still haven’t said what you want me to do.” Though the pieces are falling into place, snapping with sharp, cold clarity. Weeping Turtle is a woman of determination, of conviction and unwavering intent. She’ll make the hard choice and bare any sacrifice for her people, even if it means blood on her own hands.

 _I am not so dissimilar_ , she thinks. Jafar’s laughter rips through her, red coating her hands as she shoves the blade up, up, up, till it cannot go up any more.

Weeping Turtle holds her gaze. “I want you to kill Allistar Dulain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. Welcome to another chapter of heavy themes, questions of loyalty, love and changes of the heart. Are we capable of loving more than one person. Can True Love change? How will Alice come to reconcile her warrior heart with her desire to live a peaceful life? Can she ever forgive herself for the blood she's shed or will she embrace her nature and protect those she loves, even if it means forsaking herself?


	11. Threads That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a moment where everything goes incredibly still, where Will can feel his heart beat like a drum in his chest and hear the rush of blood in his ears. Where he can pinpoint every minute detail about the men in the other room, his senses taking over and cataloging information for later use. His eyes light on the only door out of the room and for a brief moment wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to try for a window, but there’s no time to change their plan._
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> _The room erupts into chaos and the time for crouching and sneaking passes._

A door creaks open, spilling a wheaty yellow shaft of light onto the barren floor. It cuts across Will’s face, making him squint. He’s been in the dark for days now. Weeks? Not that long, surely, but the hours seem to meld together in this little room with no windows.

Allistar refused him even a single candle, certain the thief would try to burn the house down around them just to free himself. He’d also removed any semblance of comfort from the room except a thin rug.

Stripped to nothing but his shirt and pants – even the bloody pockets had been emptied – Will sits with his back to the far wall, eyes locked on the door. His arms rest on his knees which are pulled up to his chest so that periodically he can tip his head forward and rest for a moment. But he doesn’t dare allow himself more than a few minutes of sleep before snapping his head back up to watch the door.

He knows Allistar will come for him and he wants to be ready.

The former captain had been smart, separating him from Cyrus and Aayushmaan. Even banging on the walls and calling for his companions hadn’t helped Will pinpoint their location.

He still has three wishes but hesitates to use them. They’re tricky, wishes.

Besides, holding onto those wishes is the only thing keeping Cyrus from returning to his bottle, which is currently in Allistar’s possession.

_No, I think I’ll hold onto these._

Allistar has enough knowledge about genies to know he can’t just _take_ Will’s wishes from him. They have to be given, or used up and the genie restored to his bottle so that a new master can command him.

The longer he remains in the dark, the more Will’s hope begins to dwindle. Alice needs him _now_ and he’s trapped in a room somewhere in Shoreline’s outer fringe. Was the whole town working with Allistar or had he only roped in a few lucky thugs to help his carry out his dirty work?

A tray with a bowl and squat cup slides towards him along the floor. The uneven, warped planks catch the lip of the tray and send the liquid in the cup sloshing, turning the bone-bleached wood a dark ashen color. Porridge and water. Again.

“Oi!” Will rises this time, though the last three times they brought food he hadn’t even uttered a word, just watched the routine and marking any change in behavior. He never saw who stood guard but the same lad brought him his meals; a lanky, gap-tooth kid no older than sixteen or seventeen.

The kid glances at him, doe eyes wide, and Will notices a hint of fear in them. What has Allistar told this kid about him?

“I need to talk to Allistar.” Will refrains from approaching the skittish lad, even as the prospect of shoving his way free strikes him as appealing. There’s no way to know what’s out there waiting for him to pull that kind of stunt.

The boy shakes his head. “Sir Dulain says no one is to disturb him.”

Will’s brow cocks up in an almost amused arch. “ _Sir_ Dulain? He’s got a right big opinion of himself, doesn’t he? Lad, that man is not a knight. Never was, never will be.” He doesn’t want to scare the boy but desperation bites at Will’s heels. He lunges forward, illiciting a yelp from the boy as he tries to scramble out of reach. He’s too slow, lulled by Will’s earlier distance. Fingers curled into the thin fabric of his tunic, Will pulls the boy close. “Tell Allistar I want to see him now, or I swear I’ll take my three wishes to the bloody grave. Do you understand?”

And sooner rather than later, if he can’t get to Alice in time.

The boy squeaks a reply, nodding meekly. Will releases him to stumble backwards out of the room; he gives one last terrified glance over his narrow shoulders before merging into the shadows of the hall outside.

Will waits till the youth is gone a solid minute before he slumps to the ground, heart crackling in his chest like thin ice under a heel.

_Need to get out of here._

He watches the door, eyes sharp despite the fatigue wearing on him. He can’t remember the last time he slept a full night, without terrors behind the veil of darkness. Without an ache throbbing through his heart as though it were a beat all its own.

He watches and considers his options, few as they are, but no one comes. Finally, pulled by sheer exhaustion, his head tips forward and he sleeps for a moment.

 

***

 

The sudden sense of falling pulls him from a dreamless unawareness. Reaction time impaired by the soul weary drudgery of the last several days, he fails to stop his fall before his face meets the rough wood of the floor.

Turning onto his side he stares up at Allistar, who bends down to sneer at him. “Rise and shine, Will my boy. Time for some fun.”

There’s the hint of a laugh in Allistar’s words, a mad glee at the prospect of whatever “fun” he has planned for Will.

“I have a feeling your definition of fun and mine are drastically different, mate.”

“I made the genie sing in no time at all. Let’s see how long before you’re carrying a tune. Get him up.” This last he says to two hulking forms in the doorway. Back-lit as they are, Will can’t make out their faces but they stomp towards him and heft him up off the ground with ease.

Together they drag him out into the hallway, past a table and chairs – opposite of his room is a small, windowless open area – and down to a door on the opposite side. Between the large forms of his captors Will tries to make out as much as he can about his surroundings. The hall only has one other door before it turns sharply to the left. He remembers coming down this hallway the first time. Other than bare wooden floors and sagging walls there’s little to spy. Even as old and ragged as they are, the wood panels are flush against each other, leaving no gap with which he might get a look into the other room.

Allistar opens the door to a set of stone stairs. A thin torch burns in a simple metal ring on the wall. He lifts it and casts light across the steps. As the goons drag him by, Will marks strange symbols carved into the stone.

_Curious._

At the bottom, Allistar stops before a small pillar with a brass bowl at its center. He dips the torch forward and a roaring line of flame begins to fan out to either side. Snaking along an unseen path the fire finally ends at the far end of a large room, illuminating a waist high wall feature ringing the center of the room with a reserve of oil in a small groove on top.

Now bathed in a warm orange glow, Will can see nearly a dozen doors leading away from the square shaped room and at its center, a chair, surrounded by a thin rope of flame. Bound to the chair is a slumped form. Dark hair – short and mussed – and fine clothing tell Will it’s Cyrus. Something dark stains his white-sand colored shirt, dots the floor like pinpricks of night sky.

Allistar slips his torch into another metal ring on the front side of the pillar with the bowl. He saunters over to the genie, crouching so he can stare up at Cyrus’ face.

Anger renews Will’s energy. “What have you done?” _And where was Aayushmaan?_

“I’ve prepared him for questioning.”

Now Will pulls against his captors, straining to get to Allistar, even as he knows there is little chance of the strong vices around his arms letting loose. “He doesn’t know where Alice is, Allistar!”

The former captain’s laugh fills the room like falling glass shards – sharp and shattering. “I don’t plan on asking _him_ questions, Knave. I prepared him so I might ask _you_ questions. You’ve a nasty noble streak in you for a thief and you’ll not soon let your precious Alice’s genie fall to harm, will you? How could she ever face you, knowing you’d let me harm her true love?”

Panic races through Will’s veins, heart fluttering wildly. He knows Allistar is just mad enough to try and kill the genie if it will achieve his end game. Though why the sudden desperation lighting his eyes just behind the malice, Will cannot fathom. Even at his cruelest he’d never delighted in this level of physical or mental torture.

“I wish that neither Allistar nor his people could hurt Cyrus,” Will says, calling on his first wish.

For a moment, Allistar freezes, a look of shock on his face. Then it crumbles into a sneer, which devolves into a laugh, deep and shuddering. He shakes from the mirth. Quick as lightning his hand flicks out and Cyrus’ face snaps to the side. The genie groans but slips back into unawareness easily.

_What? How?_

“I had thought to tell you first but this was far more delicious. Watching you hope, for even a moment, that you could save him with one of your wishes.” Allistar stands. “How do you suppose a port city with a strong trade in magical wares prevented those items from…causing problems?”

Now Allistar moves to one of the doors, drawing Will’s gaze to it. There’s more of the same symbols he saw on the stairs. In fact, they’re everywhere now that Will’s looking. He mentally chides himself, not only for failing to note them with his typical keen eye and because in missing them he’s played right into Allistar’s satisfaction.

“The good people of Brightshore kept store houses like this all through out the town. Managed by the shipping companies that owned them, they held the more delicate wares from distant worlds till they could be properly transported or sold off. They’ve been spelled with runes from a distant land to contain and subdue magic. A fail-safe against someone accidentally triggering a magical item and cursing the whole town.”

How does Allistar know so much about this place? How long has he been here?

“Not even your sorcerer’s magic will work within these walls.” He motions to the goons on either side of Will and they drag him forward. Behind the flaming pillar, which he couldn’t make out from his prior position, is another chair. They sit him down – roughly – and begin to weave rope bonds over his wrists and feet, cinching them till Will grimaces.

Now Allistar moves to stand in front of him, threading fingers into Will’s hair to yank back his head, forcing him to look up. Behind Allistar, a shape moves. Not one of the two who’d hauled him to this nightmare dungeon but someone dressed in all black, wielding a gleaming knife. At their waist, a belt of shimmering metal. All manner of blades and narrow poking, prying, and peeling instruments sheathed in leather loops. They jingle like a gypsy’s sash sewn with thin gold coins.

Acid rises in Will’s throat, souring the back of his parched tongue.

“Shall we begin, Knave?”

 

***

 

By the time Allistar leaves them alone, Will is hoarse from screaming. Not for any pain inflicted upon his own person, but for every slice that marred Cyrus’ tan skin. They were clotting now, flaky crimson dotting his torn tunic and exposed arms. Dark eyes stare at him from only a few feet away, glazed with pain. Allistar had moved them closer so he might bear witness to the severity of his resolve.

The former captain had asked for Alice’s whereabouts. Wanted to know why Jafar sought the genie. It seemed that Allistar had dispatched a scout or two in the deceased sorcerer’s employ and caught tales of a spell with the ability to bestow untold power on the caster.

Though he’d screamed for Allistar to stop his torturer from cutting on Cyrus, Will hadn’t give the bloke anything to chew on. In part because Will wasn’t about to sic Allistar on Alice but also because he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the concern that has been growing in him for the last several hours.

The notion that Alice might really be dead.

“Cyrus,” Will says, his cracked lips pulling tenderly. Chapstick is not a common commodity in Oz or even the Enchanted Forest so he thinks longingly of Storybrooke in that moment. And his four poster bed with Egyptian Silk, four thousand thread count sheets. Ice cold and smooth.

The genie’s head lolls from side to side, blood dried in angry streaks across the smooth skin of his exposed chest. They reach up to his neck where the torturer’s blade had hovered for dangerous seconds only minutes ago, pushing into the hale skin as though to pierce deeply, but a motion from Allistar had stayed the man’s hand.

For sure, had Allistar not believed the genie might make Will talk, the blade would be inches deep into Cyrus’ neck by now. Stomach roiling with the gravity of their predicament, Will tries to shift his chair closer. It scrapes against the stone floor loudly. Casting a glance back at the door behind him, Will pauses for a moment, then continues to scoot till his knees brush against the genie’s.

“Cyrus,” Will calls again, struggling against the ties cutting painfully into his wrists.

“Will,” Cyrus tries to focus on him but his lids want to fall closed. Shock.

“We’re going to get out of this but I need to you stay focused on me. Can you do that?” The usual sun-warmed glow of Cyrus’ skin is growing ashen. Blood loss. And who knew what else they’d inflicted upon him before bringing Will down for questioning. Guilt bites at him.

In his rush to rescue Alice, he’s brought her lover into the sharp arms of danger. And oh, how they cut.

_Dammit Knave, think. THINK!_

He needs to get out of this room, get above ground where the symbols can’t stop the magic of his wishes. Will kicks himself for waiting to use them.

_Played right into Allistar’s twisted little game with that one, didn’t you?_

“Alice…” Cyrus licks his lips and winces. They’re as cracked as Will’s.

“Yeah, Alice. We need to find a way out of here, cause she needs our help.” _Please let her need our help._ It was threadbare and tattered, but he still had hope. The alternative was too dark to consider.

“He called her ‘your Alice’.”

Will cringes. He’d hoped Cyrus hadn’t picked up on Allistar’s use of ‘your’ in regards to Alice. But it seems they were going to have to endure this awkward conversation now, while bound to chairs in a magical cellar with no chance at escape in sight. Perhaps Allistar had even planned that. Wanted to pit the two of them against each other.

What can he say? To put Cyrus’ mind at ease. That she left Will in a bloody village where people were named after flowers just so she could ease her guilty mind and rescue her true love? That she subconsciously reaches for the necklace when she’s lost in thought? That she blames herself for every heart break those she loves have experienced?

That there was nothing to the ‘your Alice’? That he doesn’t love her with every vibrating sinew, synapse, and heartbeat?

Instead he says, “She loves you.” Not a lie, and safely skirts the ache of his own longings. He wants her to be his Alice, bloody hell did he ever. But that was not to be. This was what he could offer her. A final and true happy ending. “Cut me loose Cyrus so we can go save her.”

At the reminder that Alice needs them, Cyrus raises his head, eyes suddenly clear of their earlier pain-induced gloss. Their intensity makes Will suck in a breath. Alice has that effect on people. Makes them want to rise up against all odds to help her. Because she’d do it for them.

Then a gleam catches Will's eye, down at the place where Cyrus’ hands are tied to the chair. A thin little dagger no bigger than his palm glints in the wavering firelight.

“You filch!” Will exclaims with awe and a touch of admiration. He’d had a similar thought, to poach a piece of weaponry from the torturer, but the bloke hadn’t come anywhere near him.

“You do not serve the kinds of masters I have without picking up a few skills along the way.” He spins the hilt in his hand, deft with a blade as Alice. She’d learned from him, after all. As luck would have it, the torturer believed in maintaining his tools and the razor sharp edge of the blade cuts through the rope like hot metal through butter.

Cyrus grunts in relief as his hands come free, rubbing at the raw, inflamed skin of his wrists. Then he leans forward, a bit stiffly, and cuts his bonds free at the ankles. As he tries to rise he pitches forward, dizzy from loss of blood.

“Easy mate,” Will says, trying to reach out to catch him, but his hands are bound. Useless at his sides.

The genie steadies himself with a flat palm against the seat of the chair, bent over with his other hand – the one holding the knife – braced on his knee. A thick, nearly dried droplet of crimson falls from a shallow cut along Cyrus’ forehead, staining the pale wood of the chair.

Guilt rises like bile in Will’s throat.

Cyrus slants a dark eyes towards Will, wavering slightly from fatigue. But the clarity in his eyes warns Will. _The genie has something he wants to say._

“Where is she, Will?”

They haven’t had much occasion to interact, separated as they’ve been all this time, but the few times they had, Will found the genie to be a fair and decent-hearted man, noble and brave. The kind of man Alice truly deserves. Not a thief and a liar.

Choosing his word carefully, he licks his lips, reminded again of how chapped they are. “We were coming for you. Bought a spell from The Caterpillar and everythin’. Stopped at The Golden Afternoon to restock, but she…” he chokes on the words. _She left me there out of the bloody goodness and guilt in her heart._

He isn’t really upset. He doesn’t even blame her for leaving him behind. But then she’d gone and gotten herself in a right dangerous predicament and shattered his heart in the process. They’d have some words over that.

_Please._

“She what?” Cyrus prods.

It’s then that Will realizes the genie isn’t going to cut him free till he has his answers. He can’t exactly fault the guy. He’s just been the pin cushion to Will’s questioning. But he doesn’t like the light in Cyrus’ eyes. What had Allistar been saying to him before dragging him down to join in the “fun”?

“She left in the middle of the night, tried to cross the mountains on her own. One of Jafar’s men followed her.” He’d been so focused on the hair raising presence of Aayushmaan that he hadn’t considered another of Jafar’s snakes lay in wait. “They fought, and…she fell.”

At this, Cyrus’ eyes go wide. “She fell? Where?”

“Off the side of the mountain.”

Cyrus crumbles, falling back into the chair. His hair falls out of his eyes, dark curls gleaming with sweat in the firelight. If he looked grave before he was positively brimming with pale ill-ease now.

It’s then Will remembers how Alice lost Cyrus the first time. He’d fallen from the edge of a cliff into the clouds over the Boiling Sea. But he hadn’t died, instead he’d been taken by Jafar by way of The Red Queen.

 _Alice is still alive_ , Ana’s voice whispers in his head. Penance for her crimes?

 _Don’t be daft_ , _Will_. _Ana’s dead. She can’t pay penance but what you let her ghost doll out in your mind and dreams._

And he has been hard on her, even in death. Now he wants to let Ana rest in peace, but she clings to his memory with as much force as Alice. Some people were in the very fiber of your soul. You couldn't shake them free.

“Cyrus, she’s alive. I know she is.” Will leans forward, pulling the bonds taut. He hardly registers their tightness anymore, focused as he is on the genie’s palpable anguish. An anguish he’d felt himself on that mountain side, watching Alice fall.

“The charm. The charm was dark.” Sorrow creeps into Cyrus’ whisper soft voice, recalling the necklace Will had shown him on the beach.

Will shakes his head. “No, no, Cyrus.” The steel in his voice pulls the other man’s gaze, snap-locking onto his own with a question. “The charm took a bolt of Jafar's power, meant to kill Alice. It went dark when it saved her.”

Cyrus’ eyes narrow. “You truly believe she’s alive?”

The question sends a ripple of shock through him. Why would Cyrus doubt that Alice was still alive? Weren’t they bound across invisible threads? Didn’t they share that same irritating and indomitable hopefulness that the other was alive and waiting for them? If Will felt the surety of her continued existence, why did her true love question?

“With everything in me, genie. But we can do little ‘bout her situation tied up here as play things for the Captain of Nutters, can we?”

Finally Cyrus rises and cuts him loose, strength returning to him in small measures. Once free, Will rubs at his ankles and wrists, whistling low in relief. When he straightens, Cyrus is watching him, a peculiar expression on his face.

“What did you and Alice do to this Allistar? To warrant such hatred?”

Oh, only managed to make him look a fool in front of the Queen of Hearts and steal his family’s fortune, though that last part had been all Will’s doing. Alice had bested him and left him alive to live with his shame, to face a wrathful and dangerous Queen. And Will had taken away his means to flee that wrath.

“A story for another time, mate. We need to find Aayushmaan and get out of here.”

“Why save the sorcerer? Who is he?” Cyrus’ brow furrows, the lines deeper than Will once remembered of the youthful genie. And with that look, something snaps sharply into place. A familiarity. A resemblance that he’d not seen until this moment and that exact look on Cyrus’ face. A look he’s seen somewhere else recently.

On a powerful, sun-kissed sorcerer.

Will reels, tries to shake the thought from his head. Surely not. No. It wasn’t possible.

Then again…

Alice once said Cyrus had no knowledge about his father. Amara had been tight lipped about her dalliances before joining forces with Jafar, not even revealing their sire to her children.

Now it’s his turn to fall backwards into his chair. Cyrus makes an attempt to reach for him, gallant to the end, even with those accusing eyes on him. How had he not seen it before? The resemblance was practically screaming at him now.

“Worried I’m working for the other side?”

Cyrus cocks his head to the side, waiting for Will to answer his question.

“He’s searching for Amara. But I’m beginning to think he’s a whole lot more than a long lost paramour of hers.” How would the genie take such news as what was rolling around his head? Unfortunately, there was only one person who could truly answer the question and only Cyrus knew what had befallen Amara.

Cyrus’ eyes go wide. “He…loved her?”

“Still, mate. He loves her still.” _And I think she loved him too._

A shadow passes over Cyrus’ face, his earlier surprise exchanged for something closer to grief. He’s thinking of Amara. Of whatever happened to her that only he knows.

He doesn’t wanna pry, but he asks anyways, “Do you know where Amara is?”

Chocolate dark eyes find his, brimming with diamond bright tears. Will senses what’s about to fall from his lips even before they form. “Before Jafar returned me to the bottle, we tried…She wanted to stop him-”

The words stutter out, choked up in emotion that’s clearly written in the anguish on Cyrus’ face.

Pulling together whatever reserves of strength he has, the genie continues, his voice threaded with steel, reminding Will that Cyrus is not easily broken. “Amara believed the only way to stop Jafar was to return the water her sons – that _I_ – stole from the Well of Wonders. To deprive him of a second sorcerer to perform the ritual and make right a wrong. The Well took her life force and she became nothing more than a puddle of water.” Cyrus looks away, gulping visibly. He sniffs, wiping a ripped sleeve across his brow before looking back to Will. “She’s dead.”

_Seems we’ve all lost pieces of our lives to Jafar’s game._

Will reaches out and lays a hand on the genie’s shoulder, falling silent to allow a moment for remembrance. Then, “I’m sorry, Cyrus.”

Shaking off the emotion as though it were water, Cyrus straightens, eyes hardening into coal. “He’s in one of these rooms.” He moves to stand beside the second door to the right of their position, laying an open palm on the metal. “Here.”

Will rises and joins him, crouching in front of the door, eyes level with the handle and key lock. “Hmm, doubtful he’s left this unlocked.” But he tries the handle anyways, because, well, it can’t hurt. Sure enough, it doesn’t budge. “And me without my lock picking tools.”

“We can’t brute force it open, and your wishes are useless here.” Cyrus turns and leans against the door, tapping on the metal lightly before tracing a finger over the engraved runes.

Will holds his hand out. “It’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools…or lack there of…something like that. Knife please.”

Eyebrow quirked, Cyrus hands him the small dagger, hilt first. “What do you plan to do with that?”

Taking the offered blade, Will smirks. “You don’t lead the kind of life I do without picking up a few skills along the way.” The mirror of Cyrus’ earlier quip makes the genie smile.

“Careful, that’s our only weapon. And I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it.” Cyrus' gaze lifts towards the stairs. Will doesn’t spare it a glance, instead focusing on the lock in front of him.

With practiced ease, he slips the narrow blade into the keyhole, turning it slightly to gauge the innards as best he can. The whisper soft flicker sounds of flame make it hard to hear what’s he’s listening for but at one side he hears the clink of metal hitting metal. He lifts the blade, gently scraping it along the top, using the vibrations in the hilt to tell him how many tumblers the lock has.

 _Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink._ Each tumbler sounds off.

Four.

“I’ve picked harder,” he says aloud, mostly to himself.

“Have you picked faster? Because I hear foot falls above us. They’ll not stay away for long. Usually no more than a half hour between…sessions.” The way Cyrus pauses on that last words renews Will’s guilt.

“Picking a lock is a skill of finesse. Rushing could result in-” The lock clicks under his ministrations. “Ah-ha! We’re in.”

The door flies open with a wall rattling thud. Will falls back out of the way as Cyrus quickly retrieves the knife from where it fell onto the floor. Eyes wild, Aayushmaan stares back at the two of them. His arms are raised as though he’s ready for a fight but when he sees the two of them they slowly lower. His eyes stray to the knife in Cyrus’ hands.

“I thought you were the guards.”

“Good to know you’re ready to fight your way out of here, because it might just come that,” Will says, standing. “Especially since there’s no way they didn’t hear the way you just taught that door a lesson, mate.”

They all look at door, which still rings slightly from the vibration of Aayushmaan’s attack on it.

“We need more weapons,” Cyrus muses, looking at the single dagger in his hands.

Will scans the room, eyes falling on the torch at the base of the pillar where Allistar left it. “What about fire?”

Cyrus' head swivels towards him, eyes wide. “You want to burn our way out? We can hardly control what fire chooses to consume. We’d likely end up no more than ash right along with this whole building.”

Walking to the pillar with the torch, Will lifts it out of the metal ring. Overhead he can make out increase shuffling. Allistar would be returning soon. With more than two goons thanks to the sorcerers over zealous attempt at an attack. “Only down here, mate. We just need to get to the top of those stairs.” Then they had Aayushmaan’s power and Will’s three wishes.

Aayushmaan is already moving past Will before Cyrus can agree. Huffing, the genie follows.

“I should lead. Unless you’ve skill with a blade.” Cyrus holds the dagger out to the sorcerer, who stares at it, eyes narrow.

“I’m not without abilities, pup. Get me to the top of the stairs and I’ll do the rest. I’ve let them cut me off from my power for long enough.”

The tension in the room is nearly tangible as the genie and the sorcerer stare each other down. There’s no denying it, not now that he can see them side by side in the firelight. But there isn’t time to have _that_ conversation with the two agitated men so Will clears his throat. “Well, it’s settled then. Cyrus leads, Aayushmaan kick ass at the landing and I’ll bring up the rear.” Wielding _nothing more than my wishes and a torch._

They make it up the stairs and to the door easily. Cyrus turns the handle. Everything moves slowly as the space between door and frame grows larger. Will realizes he’s holding his breath once the space is wide enough for Cyrus to slip his head out. His neck cranes back and forth, scanning the hallways for a guard.

He releases a gust of air as Cyrus opens the door wider and they slip through, one by one, by into the narrow grey hallway. Voices drift to them from the far end, back the way of Will’s prior confinement.

Free of the magical wards of the cellar, Will whispers his earlier wish. He feels the magic take hold, rushing from him to carry out his command. Cyrus stops ahead of him, no doubt feeling the pull of magic as Will spends the wish. His dark eyes cut back to him sharply, but he says nothing, keeping their silence unbroken.

_One way or another, I’m getting you to Alice in one piece, genie._

The wish settles over Cyrus and Will can feel the loss of it. One down, two to go.

He wants to wish them to Alice’s side. But there’s no way to know how that might backfire. So he swallows down the thought, concentrating on escaping the house first.

They pass the last room in the hallway, turning to the left and into a large entryway.

And into the waiting group of Allistar’s thugs.

“Bloody hell,” Will mutters as all eyes swing to them.

There’s a moment where everything goes incredibly still, where Will can feel his heart beat like a drum in his chest and hear the rush of blood in his ears. Where he can pinpoint every minute detail about the men in the other room, his senses taking over and cataloging information for later use. His eyes light on the only door out of the room and for a brief moment wonders if it wouldn’t have been better to try for a window, but there’s no time to change their plan.

The room erupts into chaos and the time for crouching and sneaking passes.

Will scrambles forward, trying to cut off Cyrus before the genie can attack. Wish or not, he doesn’t want to risk the stubborn man hurting himself in the fight. He makes it in time to lower the torch to the ground, calling out, “Aayushmaan!”

The sorcerer needs little prompting, seeing what Will intends. The flames roar up into a wall of heat and death. They go white, nearly clear, but the men on the other side pull back, screaming in pain. One, too near flames, catches, falling to the floor in wails. In moments the magically fueled fire has engulfed the poor bastard.

Will drops the torch, no longer useful now that Aayushmaan has control over the fire. He turns, grabbing Cyrus’ torn tunic, trying to pull him back towards the rear of the house.

 _Time for Plan B._ And it’s going to cost him another wish.

The sorcerer’s hands are up, splayed wide and straining, as Will tugs Cyrus past him. He doesn’t look back to see if Aayushmaan is following them. Now that he’s free from the magical holding cell, the sorcerer has some steam to let off. Will’s confident the man can hold his own against Allistar’s thugs.

His mission is to see Cyrus safely out of Shoreline. To use one of his wishes to lower himself down to where Alice fell.

He still hasn’t quiet figured out how to word that particular wish, but he’ll have time to chew it over once they get free. Now, he concentrates on maneuvering through the narrow hallway, dragging a genie behind him.

“Get ready to use that thing,” Will says as they round the corner leading towards the back of the house. The men that had been guarding his former holding room are standing now, rushing towards the screams of their comrades.

Cyrus shrugs off Will’s grip, squaring off against the four thugs headed towards them with scowls on their face. One wields a nasty looking beam of wood with nails through it. Another twirls a rope with a metal spike on the end. The third clenches his fists, bare knuckles bloody from an earlier brawl. He’s brawny, shaved head shiny. The four draws a short sword, a gap-toothed grin spreading across his face.

Brandishing his tiny dagger, Cyrus launches forward to the closest man. Metal clashes against metal as the nails and dagger scrape against each other. The bloke pulls back, swinging for the genie’s head but Cyrus delivers a firm punch to his gut, forcing air from the man’s lungs.

Will spies a glint of metal from the corner of his eye, ducking just before the business end of a rope bound spike zips past his head.

 _Head in the game, Knave._ This time it sounds like Alice chiding him and warmth floods him. He misses her fiercely.

Rolling forward Will sweeps a leg out to topple the guy holding with the whip. With a grunt, the man falls, but quick as lightning he’s up, twirling and spinning till he brings the rope in close, criss-crossed over his body like a cocoon. He pauses, then begins to spin the other way, each movement flicking the roped spike out before pulling it back.

Will dodges the first two but the third strike hits him across the arm, making it go numb. Wincing, Will pulls back. To his left a fist flies through the air towards him. He turns, protecting his chest and the blow lands on his shoulder, knocking him against the far wall with an ‘oomph’.

Dizzy with the sudden jolt Will tries to right himself and shake the daze from his vision. Behind him he can still hear Cyrus struggle with the bat wielding goon. The metal of their clashes rings above the grunts and screams of the others.

The brawler makes to hit him again, this time aiming for Will’s face. Will raises his arms to deflect the shot but it never lands. Lowering his arms he can see the man struggle against an invisible force.

Shooting a glance to his left he sees Aayushmaan round the corner, hand splayed out like a puppet master. With a flick of his wrist, the huge man goes flying as though he were nothing more than a waded up ball of paper.

“Thanks, mate,” Will says just as a whistle of air sounds beside him. He ducks the strike of the spear, but barely. “Shit!”

The sorcerer turns his attention to the man with the whip. The spike stops mid air, in the thrall of Aayushmaan’s power. Then it flies backwards into the man, knocking off his feet and splattering blood onto the opposite wall.

Two down, two to go.

Flames begin to lick at the walls, growing closer with each second. The house will be engulfed in no time.

A yell at his back pulls Will’s attention. He turns in time to see the man with the bat shove against Cyrus, sending the genie off balance and opening his guard. The nail studded bat comes down in a high arc. Even as he knows what’s about to happen, Will still cries out a warning.

The bat hits Cyrus but shatters into wood shards, the nails fall to the ground. The force ripples back up the arms of the weilder, making him shudder and fall to his knees, hand bloody from where the bat has broken apart in his grip.

At the genie’s back the man with daggers has circled around to attack. Metal flashes, quicksilver fast, but the end blunts against the force protecting Cyrus. And in that moment the genie knows what Will spend his first wish on. His safety.

Regaining his footing, Cyrus rounds his fist over and up into the man’s face, knocking him backwards. He doesn’t get up.

Will rushes to Cyrus’ side, hand out to clasp his shoulder. “You okay?”

The genie nods, swallowing hard and breathing heavy from the fight. He doesn’t ask about the wish but Will can see the thanks in his eyes. Will nods once and points to the room at the end.

As they pass the table set up outside the room he notices his jacket slung across the back of a chair. Snatching it up, he grins. The coat settles on his shoulders with all the comfort of familiarity. It feels good, like donning a kind of armor.

Ahead of him, Cyrus and Aayushmaan stop short, staring at the tiny windowless room.

“This was your plan? There is no way out of here!” The sorcerer growls.

“Oh ye of little faith.” Will claps his hands. “Stand aside, gentlemen.”

They part to either side of him, eyes locked on him with questions playing across their faces.

 _So alike._ Will's caught the sorcerer sneaking glances of Cyrus since they'd released him from his cell. Perhaps Aayushmaan has begun to suspect what Will already knows. Begun to see the familial connection.

 _Time for that later_ , he thinks.

“I wish for a door where I place my hand that will lead to the outside.” The magic of his wish tingles against his skin, warming as it builds, ready for release. Stepping forward he lays a palm flat against the wall opposite of the door. The magic rushes out of him, quick as a fox, eager to carry out his command. Behind him, Cyrus sucks in a breath, the magic pulling from his well as a genie.

Will remembers what it felt like, to channel that kind of power without truly being able to harness it. To be a conduit but unable to touch it for your own use. It was maddening.

An outline begins to glow, blue-white bright, against the wall, expanding from his hand out until it's as tall and wide as the door behind them. The wall begins to waver and fall away under his hand, revealing the cool night air beyond.

Will steps through.

 

***

 

Something strikes out at him from behind knocking stars loose in his vision. The world grows silent in favor of a terrible ringing in his head. Somewhere, as though through cotton and several closed doorways, he thinks he can hear someone shout his name. The world tilts on its side, the ground rising to over take the sky.

Up is down, down it up. And the world continues to ring.

Something warm spreads over him, radiating out from the side of his head. _S_ _o_ _warm._

Then it grows chilled as the wind blows across sensitive skin. Pain lances through him, chasing the warmth from his bones, leaving only a wet coldness behind. He reaches up absently to touch at the spot once so warm. His fingers slip on something thick and slick. Dazed, the ground now where a wall might be and the sky standing at attention beside him, he realizes he's staring at blood. Dark, chocolate-thick blood. It's sticky and for a moment he watches his finger open and close, marveling at the way it wants to cling to itself, wants to bind his hand together.

Allistar's face looms over him, replacing the moon in the sky.

He realizes then that he's on his side, knocked over by the flat side of Allistar's sword.

“I knew you'd try to escape, Knave. It's in your nature to run away. All I had to do was give you the chance to try. How many wishes do you have left, I wonder.”

Will struggles to get to his knees. He half expects Allistar to kick him over but the man lets him stand, laughing at the way he sways and shakes his head to knock the dancing dots of light free from his eyes. Arcing streaks of pain split his skull.

Though it's felt like an eternity only seconds have passed. Cyrus and Aayushmaan are still inside the room, staring out at Allistar. The sorcerer has his hands raised but Will knows magic would hurt Allistar. Not so long as he wears the braces. The genie is trying to push past the sorcerer, brandishing his dagger but Aayushmaan won't let him by and Will thinks, in a hazy cotton-headed way, _he knows._

_He knows Cyrus is his son._

Will turns away from them to face Allistar, raising his fists, though they will do little good against a sword.

_But I'm ready to go down trying. I'll take you down with my teeth if I have to._

Allistar is gone. Nothing more than shadow where his face once loomed. Will spins, searching the dark coves for a sign of the man. Nothing but wind tussled grass and open air.

Then a sound cuts through the fog and pain, like a bolt of lightning straight to his heart.

“Will!”

He can't believe it. Must be going mad. Knocked into lunacy. He _can't_ be hearing what he hears.

But it cuts through the pain again, spearing him with its clarity.

“Will!”

He half turns, heart thudding.

And there she stands, hair loose around her shoulders, wild and tangled.

“Alice,” the words leave his mouth before he can stop himself. She's there. Running towards him. Alive.

 _Alive, alive, alive._ It rings through his head like a gong, in time with his heartbeat.

His knees nearly give out but he remembers Allistar and fear sets him ram-rod straight. No. _No._

“Alice, no,” he tries to warn her but still she runs towards him.

Runs until she crashes into him. Wraps herself around him, arms connecting at his back as though locking in place. Even her legs are up, clinging to him as though he were a lifeline. But Will knows, she is the lifeline. And suddenly he feels like he can breathe, like his heart has only just learned how to beat.

She was alive. She was here.

Her hands snake over his head, fingers running through his hair smearing blood. Her face searches his, wanting to confirm he's really there? He can't stop himself from touching her face, proving to himself that she's just a real as he is.

“Will,” she whispers, tears streaming from her face. Her eyes are star-bright.

He cups her chin, emotion warring within himself, hope flaring like a wildfire. Could she? He can't finish the thought, overcome with relief. Then cold dread washes over him. Fear deeper than any he's ever known. For his beautiful Alice has run herself straight into the arms of danger.

“You shouldn't have come, Alice.” A look of hurt to crosses her face, but he doesn't take the words back because at that same moment he realizes what this must look like to Cyrus, who's watching them from the doorway, just behind Aayushmaan and...

“Will,” she starts, then suddenly her back arches, eyes rolling back into her skull. She goes limp, dangling like a puppet in his arms. Will cups the back of her head, eyes frantically searching for the cause of her sudden unconsciousness. A tiny wooden dart protrudes from the side of her neck. Thin as a blade of grass and rigid as a reed, it's sunk deep into her skin where a tiny bead of crimson begins to blossom.

“How nice of Alice to join us.” Allistar's laughter fills the night air. From the dark and shadows and lazily swaying grass, silhouettes begin to rise, closing in around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long, heh. But Alice and Will are re-united just in time for more to befall them! Next: A look into how Alice got to Shoreline so quickly and what choice she made regarding Weeping Turtle's request. Plus, Will faces his own choices and the consequences of wishing...or not wishing for things. Thanks for reading!


	12. The Flaw of Wild Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Awareness returns to her in heartbeat flashes. First, light at her lids, honey warm and wavering as though filtered through autumn leaves high on the trees. Then, in the sound of someone talking, muffled and cotton-y. Its cadence is soothing and she drifts in the timber as one might drift in a river’s current. She’s content to stay submerged until the pinch of discomfort digs at her._
> 
> _The voices grow sharper, solidifying in amber pools of clarity that finally draw her forward with a groan._

Alice sees Will.

A twilight shaft of light illuminates the edges of his familiar frame and her breath catches in her throat. He’s there. In Shoreline. Wearing that jacket of his.

She can practically smell its leather and Will-infused scent from where she stands, can feel its warmth from all the memories of all the times she’s woken to find it wrapped around her in the middle of the night.

“Will,” she murmurs, heart fluttering madly.

“Will!” _Please turn, please see me._

She’s nearly down the hill leading into Shoreline’s outskirts when he turns and her heart skips a beat, stuttering over itself at the sight of his face bathed in pale half-moon, half sun light.

His face is one of utter shock and hope.

She can’t believe how good it feels to see that look on his face again. To _see_ him again. Before she knows it, she’s running.

“Will!” She’s so close now. He calls out her name, half filled with disbelief, half filled with longing. How has she never heard it before?

_Blind. I’ve been so blind._

She’ll face that blindness later. For now, all she wants, all she _needs_ is to fling herself into his arms with sobbing, wondrous, heart shuddering relief. To give into the rush roaring through her veins, making her heart beat so fast it might just burst from her chest and take flight.

His lips move but she can’t hear what he’s saying. A look of panic crosses his face. She can’t stop running towards him. Needs to be near him so her heart can finally steady itself. _So much to tell him._

Then she’s there, like a wave, crashing against him, wrapping herself around him. Her rock. Her safe harbor.

_Safe. Safe. Safe._

She almost can’t believe it, even though a part of her knew he’d continue her quest. When Will gives his word…when he gives it to _her_ …he keeps it. Her hands touch his face, just to reassure herself that this is really happening. It’s only been a few days but it’s felt like a lifetime.

A cold wetness coats her hands but she’s too relieved to stop running her fingers through his hair. It’s grown longer, a tad shaggy on top. She likes it. His own hands thread through her loose hair, clutching her gently, as though fearing she’ll disappear if he lets go.

Will’s eyes, brows heavy over those dark pools, are filled with tears. Her own are running in rivulets down her cheeks. He cups her chin and she’s flooded with warmth, her body singing with the contact. Then his body grows taut with tension, a shadow passing across his face, replacing his joy with fear.

“You shouldn’t have come, Alice.”

The words sting, pulling her back but she doesn’t let go. _Can’t let go._

“Will.” Something bites at her neck, mosquito sharp. For a moment she thinks to swat at it, then something seizes up her muscles, forcing her back to arch.

Then the world goes silently black.

 

***

 

_ Two Days Ago: _

 

“Tis a hard thing I ask of you, I know this.”

Alice turns on the stool where she sits beside the window in Weeping Turtle’s cottage. Nightfall paints the outside in dark strokes of cobalt blue and midnight shadow. There’s little to see beyond the fairy lights hovering over the stone path in the garden but she’s been staring out into that darkness for hours now.

Weeping toddles over, joining her by clearing a space on a small box table strewn with an apothecary's tools and settles herself down with a gentle huff. She fixes her warm eyes on Alice, a knowing glimmering there that she finds hard to hold for long.

She tries to look away but Weeping reaches out a hand, fast for such a wizened old woman, and presses a wrinkled thumb to her chin, gently pulling her gaze back. “You believe I do not understand the price I put on your shoulders. That blood is so easily spilt in my mind.”

Alice doesn’t nod, but it’s the truth. She goes cold as ice, thinking of Jafar’s face in his final moments. The image will haunt her forever and beyond, into whatever afterlife may come.

“It’s easy to thrust the blade, Starfall, but not so easy to live with what comes after. The strike, the hit, the blood, not even those keep me up at night. No. It’s the eyes when the foul deed is done. It’s the absence of light when I’ve pulled back.”

Alice remembers then that Weeping Turtle once fought in the battle for Brightshore, back before it become Shoreline. Earlier, among the hidden remnants of that lost time and place, she’d heard tales about Weeping’s heroics, the way she’d freed them from certain death and brought them to this between-place where they awaited their return to the true Brightshore.

Some had waited themselves into death and only their children remained behind to see their ashes interred in the soil of their reclaimed town. Their expectant eyes had pricked at Alice, tickling at her need to help. To _do_ something for those that couldn’t do for themselves.

But could her hands take the weight of more blood upon themselves?

She looks down at them, clean and creased with an age she hasn’t noticed till now. Callouses dot the palms from where her sword rests in her grip, where she’s pulled a bow string back – the few times she’s had occasion to use one – and the tips of her fingers are rough.

A warrior’s hands.

 _A killer’s hands_ , Jafar’s voice sneers in her head. _You’re no better than me._

Laughter tumbles through her skull, burning like kicked embers across dry grass.

She clenches her fists. Weeping Turtle places her own weathered and creased hands – calloused in a healer’s way, though once they were likely the roughened pads of a warrior, just like herself – over Alice’s and squeezes.

“I do not ask lightly, Starfall. I would go myself but I’ve not held a sword in nearly three decades.” She lifts her hands, turning them over so her palms shine in the lamplight. “The only weapon I wield now is a pestle and a well placed word.”

She’s taken to calling her Starfall, as though Alice were a gone creature with no existence left to live. And in a way, Alice feels that. Has felt the change for a while now. Bethlem changed her and now, she’s morphing again, shedding skin.

_Will Cyrus even recognize me?_

Weeping rises, resting a soft but firm hand on her shoulder. “Take time to consider. Talk with my people. Heal. When you are ready to choose, I will be ready to accept whatever you decide.”

 

***

 

_ Present: _

 

Awareness returns to her in heartbeat flashes. First, light at her lids, honey warm and wavering as though filtered through autumn leaves high on the trees. Then, in the sound of someone talking, muffled and cotton-y. Its cadence is soothing and she drifts in the timber as one might drift in a river’s current. She’s content to stay submerged until the pinch of discomfort digs at her.

The voices grow sharper, solidifying in amber pools of clarity that finally draw her forward with a groan.

Cold stone presses against her face and she realizes she’s lying on the ground, the world hinged over onto its side. She shifts, turning to face more of the room. It’s large but across the way she can make out three shapes through flames that flicker along a squat wall. As they come into focus their words coalesce into coherence.

“He’s not going to make the same mistake twice.” Will.

“I’m still not convinced it was a mistake, Knave. He was waiting for us.” A foreign voice, belonging to the longest shadow across the room. Alice squints, trying to will the fluff from her vision. The sorcerer comes into focus. She remembers then that she saw him with Will on the mountaintop. Were they working together?

He’d tried pulling her memories from her. Searching for Amara, she remembers.

“He’s right, Will.”

_Cyrus._

Her gasp pulls the attention of all three, turning their faces full into the firelight. She can see him now, bound at the wrists to a metal ring overhead. His face is taut with the strain of such a position but when he sees she’s awake concern for her replaces his discomfort.

“Alice,” Her name is a whisper on his tongue, laced with something more than relief. A touch of sadness? Then she remembers throwing herself into Will’s arms. Had he seen?

She can’t feel regret, would have still reacted as she had, but she doesn’t relish the look of hurt that hides under his concern for her.

 _None of this has been easy on any of us_ , she thinks.

“You’re awake,” Will says, sighing as though a huge weight has lifted off his shoulders. He’s bound to a chair between Cyrus and the sorcerer, who’s hung much the same as Cyrus.

“Where are we?” She tries to sit up only to realize there is a collar of steel around her neck, held in place to the floor with a short chain of fat links. At her back, her hands are bound with more steel. Panic ripples through her. Had she been relieved of her weapon? The one at her wrist?

She strains to brush a finger against her arm, searching for its presence, but only heated flesh meets her touch. _Gone._

“A warehouse left over from the town’s trade days. It’s been spelled to dampen and nullify magic,” Cyrus says.

“Will found you,” she says, more statement than question.

Cyrus nods, eyes on her intently. “And he has spent two of his three wishes.”

There are dark marks along his once flawless skin. From this distance and angle the shadows and flame-light play tricks on her eyes. Wounds? Concern washes over her.

“Allistar has the bottle, Alice,” Will says, regret in his voice.

Alice understands then. Will would not have wished themselves free of harm so long as an enemy held Cyrus’ bottle. He’d be a prisoner to another master’s whim once again. Though unexpected, it does not change her plans, though now she has an inkling of what is to come. “You cannot use that last wish, no matter what. Not till we’re free.”

“You’re not surprised by the mention of his name,” Will muses, eyes sharp as cut onyx.

So much to tell them. So she does, in part. Tells them about the cut, the poison. She watches as Will’s eyes grow dark, nearly black in this light, as she mentions the haze of fever and the gryphons. But she stops short before mentioning Weeping Turtle and the denizens of the mountain town. She’s not sure if the walls have ears and so she keeps her tongue still. She refrains from telling them fully how she healed. Only that the gryphons took her to a mountain healer.

Will seems to understand, a look passing over his face, and he doesn’t prod her further. Cyrus looks shell shocked, hearing about how close to death she came.

It’s not the first time, though, and until this fell business be done, she knows it won’t be the last.

 _I always had you at my side in those early days, but we’d the_ _naive_ _spirit of adventurers and thought the world such a vast and bright terrain for us to explore,_ she thinks.

But now she’s changed by the landscapes she’s endured, the harsh planes of abandonment and loss. The unforgiving denizens of Wonderland, in all its wondrous and vicious beauty. And it’d been Will who stood beside her when the world was no longer something to be explored but survived.

Her story done, or as done as she’ll allow for now in this unknown place, she turns her eyes on the sorcerer. “And you? I see you’ve no friend in Allistar. Have you learned what you tried so delicately to pull from my memory unbidden?” She cannot hide the trace of venom or sarcasm in her voice.

She’s grown weary of being the plaything for puppet-masters.

The sorcerer looks at Cyrus and the look makes a breath hitch in Alice’s throat. It’s achingly familiar and her gaze swings over to the genie. Then to Will, who nods. He sees what she sees.

“Your genie is a stubborn man. Even bound as we are by this shared fate, he will not tell me where Amara is.” She expects anger but there is only sadness in the sorcerer’s voice.

 _I’m not the only one tired of walking a never ending path_ , she thinks, the sharp edge of her thoughts about him softening a touch.

“I’d have a story from you, sorcerer.” She recalls his words to her when he tried to pull Amara’s whereabouts from her head.

He bows his head in acquiescence. “Call me Aayushmaan. And it is a fair price you ask, Alice. A story for a story.” And he tells it. Not only for her but for Cyrus, whose face she closely watches.

As he concludes, he looks to Cyrus. “You are her son, please, tell me. Where has she gone?”

“Why should I tell you anything? Just because you loved her? Jafar thought he loved her too.” Cyrus scowls, though Alice can tell he isn't unmoved by the sorcerer's story of lost love.

“Because he's your father, Cyrus,” Alice says.

Everyone looks at her.

Will sucks in a breath of air, wincing. “I wasn’t going to tell them that little detail just yet.”

She shrugs, or tries to. It’s a hard motion to perform on her side, chained as she is to the floor. “We’ve little time for this game, Knave.” She savors the word on her tongue, withholding the usual chiding tone that infuses her use of that nickname for him. She’s quite come to love it in fact. “Besides, they deserve to know.”

Aayushmaan looks seared, burned by the knowledge, almost as if he will deny it, but she watches him study the genie with careful attention. His pulls in a rough breath between clenched teeth. Pulls against his bonds as though to get to Cyrus, but he’s held fast by the chains from which he dangles.

“My…son?”

“Alice, surely you jest? This man cannot be my father.”

“Even were he not, you’d keep knowledge of her from him who so clearly cares for her? I did not know you to be so cruel, Cyrus.” Her words wound him and she realizes they sound harsher than she intended, born of her own age old hurt at the lies told to her about Cyrus when she'd first returned to Wonderland. Dead, alive, dead, alive. The cycle had wrung her heart dry to a brittle degree.

But Amara was his mother, he’d only ever wanted to protect her, save her from Jafar. That little, she knows from their brief reunion, back when Will had been the one stuck in the bottle.

“She’s dead. Returned to Nix and her Well of Wonders.” Cyrus says, his eyes hard as stone. The words cut as they’re meant, making her flinch in regret. But she isn’t the true victim of this information.

A moan escapes Aayushmaan and suddenly Alice is sorry for pushing the matter. She’d not known Amara’s fate and had hoped, as foolish as hope seemed in light of everything. It is a pesky fire in her belly that never seems to die.

Will gives her a sympathetic look, but remains stubbornly silent.

 _Letting me dig my own grave,_ _eh Knave_? But she feels the prick of shame heat her cheeks. She shouldn’t have pushed Cyrus into such a confession. This isn’t the reunion she’d dreamed of. “I’m so sorry, Cyrus. Aayushmaan. For you both.”

Silence falls over the four of them. Tears streak the sorcerer’s face but he remains rigid, and still. If anything, he looks all the more terrifying. Made dangerous in his grief. Alice can’t help but wonder who will suffer the fate of that wrath.

“We’re still where we were an hour ago, trapped in a magical cellar.” Will breaks the tension with a gentle cough.

Cyrus pulls his gaze from Alice and she tears hers away from his.

 _All you know how to do is cut, cut, cut._ Jafar laughs.

But under that self deprecating voice is a seed of anger. It surprises her as she lights upon it, realizing that down deep, down where her true feelings have been hiding for a while now, is a touch of resentment. And she’s shamed anew at this revelation, to realize it’s directed at Cyrus.

A tiny, wicked voice in her head whispers. _All this loss, this pain, this heartache…all for him. He’s been safe in his bottle and you’ve been cut to ribbons on the road to find him. Where was he when Bethlem came to rob you of your memories? When your father abandoned you and told you everything of your life with that man was a lie? Where had he been when you faced untold enemies just to find him? When you fell into a poisonous near-death fog, all to save him?_

And just as soon as the voice speaks she admonishes herself, shocked at such a feeling.

 _I still love him,_ she thinks. But it’s changed. As changed as she is. And that settles over her like a black shroud.

Her heart rips, raw and ragged around the edges. She can’t take much more of this torment.

Overhead, footsteps, then the sound of a door creaking open and booted footfalls thudding down stone steps. Firelight precedes Allistar as he descends into the cellar. His face breaks into a grin as his eyes land on Alice.

_It's almost time._

“Alice, how good to see you’re awake. Just in time.”

 

***

 

_ One Day Earlier: _

 

Sunlight spreads itself across the mountain top like a sheet of pale yellow silk, warming a chill that’s been in Alice’s bones all night. She’s slept little, leaving in the dusky grey hours of the pre-dawn morning to stand at the edge of a drop off not far from Weeping Turtle's cottage.

The wind buffets against her, pulling on her hair with as much force as the choice before her pulls on her heart.

_Tis a hard thing I ask of you._

Weeping’s words roll around in Alice’s head, clattering against every haunted memory.

The wind swirls around her suddenly, the sound of wing beats pulling her attention. Just to her left a gryphon lands gracefully onto an outcropping of sun-bathed stone.

“Windwing,” Alice says, smiling.

“Starfall Alice, how fare you?” His head cocks to the side, inquisitive eyes watching her.

She sighs, considering a lie, but knows it will sour on her tongue. And Windwing saved her life, so it is only right she return his courage with honesty. “Not so well, I’m afraid.”

“The red snake ails you?”

Alice looks down at her arm. The bandage is mostly to keep moisture from beading on the healing wound, but the red snake has fully retreated, returned to its source, which even now, knits closed on her arm. “No, no. Weeping Turtle is a fantastic healer. I’m nearly recovered.” Nearly ready to leave this mountaintop.

“Then it is something else?” Windwing’s head tilts in the opposite direction.

Alice turns her face into the warmth of the dawning light, letting is sink deep into the darkest reaches of herself. “A choice, Windwing. A hard choice.” She turns to face the gryphon. “Weeping tells me you were not yet hatched when the final battle took place at Brightshore. Have you heard tales?”

“Tales a plenty! I was raised from a hatchingling on tales of the elders' bravery and Weeping Turtle's courage. She is a legend among us.” There is youthful excitement in his voice. The kind that reminds her of herself, back before she knew fairytales had teeth and could bite back. It’s the tone of one who’s never known heartache, who dreams of adventure, and oh, how she misses such innocence.

“What might have been?” she muses, more to herself than Windwing. What might have been, had Weeping not taken up the sword? Not fought to free her people before The Queen of Hearts destroyed them all? And what of _Weeping's_ fate, had the gryphons not found her and felt pity, for they were just as tired of being playthings to puppet-masters?

“We do not ask that. Among the gryphons, there is only now and tomorrow. What is past cannot be changed. What we do now, however, can change tomorrow.” Windwing preens on the rock, raising one large feathered wing into the air.

“That is…very wise,” she says, considering his words carefully. “So the gryphons do not regret their choice to help Weeping? Even though it meant others of their kind might die?”

“Others would die regardless. More, even, as the Elders say, had they not chosen as they did. The Queen of Hearts made them believe their only options were to serve, or perish. Weeping gave them a choice they could not see and in doing so, liberated them.”

“A choice they could not see…” Alice trails off, lost in thought. The seed of something nestles into her then, but its existence is too fragile just yet to voice. She needs to think. To work it out.

The sun rises high into the eastern sky, diamond bright, and she turns her face into it again, eyes closed.

There is time still. Not much. But she’ll enjoy this moment.

“Windwing?”

“Yes, Starfall?”

“Thank you for saving me. How can I ever repay you for such a gift as my life?”

Silence. Alice doesn’t open her eyes to look at him, content to let the moment stretch until finally he says, “When you go, take me with you, Starfall.”

 

***

 

_ The Present: _

__  
  
Allistar shoves her down into a chair. Men at either side of her tie down bonds with a force that makes her cry out. Across from her, another chair. This one has Will, who’s cursing and twisting. Already bound, he’s helpless to do anything but watch them secure her.

Her heart beats wildly, taking in their surroundings. They’re topside now, Cyrus and Aayushmaan left behind in favor of whatever sick game Allistar has planned for her and Will. Smoke fills her nose, but it’s flat and smells slightly of wet dirt and wood. There’s angry black singe marks snaking along the hall's walls. A fire recently doused. Underneath the sent of ash and extinguished flame is another, this one foul and makes her nose crinkle.

_Death._

The room they’re in is more of an alcove, set with a small table and chairs. A door across the way is shut. Turning to take in the rest she spies a heap in the far corner. Her skin grows cold, eyes widening in horror.

_Bodies._

“Alice, look at me.” Will’s voice pulls at her attention but she can’t look away.

“You’re friend here had some fun while trying his ill-fated escape. Took out half my men with a torch and magic.” Allistar must have caught her looking in horror at the bodies piled unceremoniously in the corner.

Angrily, she turns back to face him, heat rising in her cheeks now. “They were _your_ men, Captain. They deserve far better a fate than the courtesy you’ve shown them.”

Allistar draws back, only slightly, but it’s enough that she notes it. His face flushes, though from anger or shame, she cannot tell.

“Their deaths are on the Knave’s head. His and your genie’s.” He points, spittle flying from his mouth in his anger. “Did you forget the dishonor you served me, Alice? In a court that destroys weakness, you cut my legs out from under me. Made me the target of a vicious and wondrous queen. I would have risen in the ranks were it not for you. Been her Second-in-Command by now. But you,” he says this with all the venom he can muster, “ _you_ stole that from me. And I was banished to this wet, dark corner of the world!”

He laughs now, drawing a blade from his pocket. Alice recognizes it as hers. The one Will gave her. She grits her teeth, anger flooding her anew.

“But I earned my way back into her good graces.” He unsheathes it, pressing the point into the pad of one finger, just hard enough to dimple the skin without breaking it. “I gave her the port city of Brightshore. A last vestige of resistance in her near complete control of Wonderland. A tar smear on her shining rule, and I delivered it to her.”

He moves to stand beside her, knife gleaming in the lamplight.

“Allistar, no! It’s me you want. I’m the one who stole your fortune. Alice didn’t even know.” Will struggles hard enough against the restraints that his chairs starts to hop. Allistar snaps his fingers and two of his men press their large hands onto Will’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

Alice glares up at the former Captain. He’s much changed in the years since she last saw him. When she’d beat him in a duel for Will’s freedom. She’d stolen the Knave’s heart from the Queen’s own cache but it hadn’t been enough. Hunted down by Allistar, the two had been captured not long after and forced to face The Queen of Hearts. Alice had offered a challenge for Will’s freedom and the forgiveness of her theft. If she lost, the Queen could have _her_ heart in reward. But only if the Queen swore it on her very own power.

Amused, the Queen had agreed to it, believing Allistar would best her and she’d have control of the Knave _and_ Alice, who’d been a thorn in her side for a while now. But Cyrus had taught Alice how to wield a blade with cunning swiftness and her agile skill won the match.

Bound by the magic of her oath, The Queen of Hearts had no choice but to let them both leave, unharmed. It hadn’t stopped her from pursuing them afterward, but by then, the two of them had fled deep into Wonderland’s wilds.

She needs to buy them more time. Just a little more time.

“You’ve grown quiet mad with power, Allistar. And the lack thereof.” Steel winds itself around her spine. She won’t give into the fear this man is trying to inspire in her. Let him do his worst to her. She is Starfall Alice. She’s been at death’s very door.

Allistar leans down, drawing the edge of the blade across her skin. It’s cold and dangerously thin. She’d sharpened it before her descent from the mountain top. But she holds her place, refusing to give Allistar the satisfaction of pulling away.

“Yes, Alice, you are right. I’ve grown quiet mad. Quiet mad indeed. Mad as the damned Hatter, mad as a Bandersnatch. Mad as the Jabberwocky. I’ve come to gobble you up and spit out your bones.” He laughs, pressing in on the blade.

Pain spiderwebs out from the point, shooting up her cheek. Warmth coats her chin as a thin line of blood trickles down.

_Just a little longer..._

“Allistar! Stop!” Will pleads, his eyes anguished.

He pulls back, though not as Will’s request. This time he pulls something out from a pocket in his dirty floor length duster. It’s Cyrus’ bottle. He sets it on the floor beside her, whispering, “What say you Alice? Shall we see if we can make Will use that last wish?” Then he descends upon her, smile as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.

 

***

 

_ One Day Ago: _

 

Alice spends most of the rest of the day walking among the people of Brightshore. They’re shy at first, curiously watching her from behind slanted shutters and cracked doorways. But a few, the younger of them, come out to walk with her through the sun-dappled gardens at the center of their cobbled village.

She asks them questions and they answer her with earnest hearts. If they know of Weeping Turtle’s request, they do not speak on it and for that Alice is thankful.

Children gather about her legs, asking for tales of adventure. They’ve never left their mountain top home, but the elders sometimes talk about the Wonderland beyond their cave entrance. She delights them with stories that might have once made her own heart race, made her yearn to see such places as she’s seen. In the telling she even begins to feel a flicker of that old flame, urging her to go, see the world.

She’s careful not to mention the kinds of monsters that lurk in the dark of the woods though, and older, wiser eyes watch her carefully, appreciating her discernment. They’ve sacrificed much to give their children’s children the comforts of innocence and she will not begrudge them that, even as she wants to warn them.

To warn them of Jafars, and Caterpillars, and Red Queens, and Knights who are not knights at all but vicious men delighting in the cruelty of their mistresses. But she does not.

Time enough to learn all that. Maybe even a few will go peacefully to whatever afterlife there is having no knowledge of monsters wearing the faces of brethren.

Windwing spends time with her too. His smaller shape allows him to follow her through the caverns, though he stays back from the garden, watching the congregation of people gathered about her. At times, he wanders off, shooting up through the hole in the ceiling to stretching his wings, but he returns and rests nearby, watching her.

Under the current of questions and curious touches, she can feel the seed of an idea forming. She tills soil over it, waters it, begs it to grow into something useful.

An answer to the question.

To kill? Or not to kill?

Whether tis nobler to free these people or spare her hands the blood of another monster?

“I doubt Shakespeare would despair of my choice. It would make for good theatre, I think.” She says this to herself in a quiet moment if solitude before Windwing joins her again. This time they walk through the mismatched streets of this makeshift Brightshore. It’s hauntingly beautiful, pieced together as it is.

It reminds her of what remained of herself after Bethlem. The patchwork doll she became just to survive that place and continue on when continuing seemed hopeless.

And in thinking, her thoughts drift to Will. And in turn Cyrus. They’re two moons orbiting her awareness, spinning ever around her.

She longs to see both of them again.

But…

“Starfall, why does your face look as such?” Windwing pulls her from her thoughts.

“I cannot see my own face, Windwing. How does it look?”

“As though you dwell on something wonderful. What do you think on?”

_Will…_

His face floods her mind’s eye, strong and proud and full of mirth. His eyes twinkle in humor and his lips curl up in a half smirk that heats her cheeks, then…

His face in anguish, reaching for her, crying out her name as she fell into a world of white.

She reaches for the pendant that once rested so heavy on her neck. But it’s gone and she realizes it’s been days since she last sought its comforting coolness.

“Someone, Windwing. I think about someone.”

“They are special to you, Starfall?”

“Very.” Her hand drops away from the empty place at her collar bones. “Do gryphons have those they think on fondly?”

“Indeed.” Then he begins to tell her, at great length, about the courtship practices of gryphons.

 

***

 

_ Present: _

 

Will’s bellow brings her crashing back into the moment. She’d disassociated for a second, slipped into a blessed unawareness where no pain existed. Her gaze connects with his. Allistar leaves Will’s view unobstructed that he might witness all that befalls Alice.

His eyes are red, face wet with tears. And she can tell, even caught up in the haze of pain as she is, that he’s about to crack. About to use his final wish to save her.

_Not yet. Hold on a little longer._

“Don’t you dare, Knave.” Her voice cracks, lip split from the backhand that had sent her into a brief respite of darkness. Now a shallow cut along the top of her arm brings her roaring back. “I endure, you endure. Do not use that wish.”

“Alice, he will take you to death to get what he wants.”

 _I’ve a plan_ , she thinks. “We must endure, Will.”

He shakes his head. “Do not ask this of me, Alice. Do not ask me to watch this happen to you.”

Allistar laughs. “It’s too beautiful. The knave will damn the genie to save his Alice. Just as I knew he would. Give me what I want Knave and I’ll give you what you want, though how quickly you acquiesce will determine how much is left of her to give back.” He rests the tip of her dagger on the top of her hand. “Shall I take her sword hand from her? The very one that humiliated me?”

The tip presses deeper.

She screams.

Will echoes her cry.

 

***

 

_ One Evening Ago: _

 

Alice bids good evening to the fair folk of Brightshore and returns to Weeping Turtle's cottage, weary from a day of questions, both within and without.

She finds the aged healer bent over a table, deep into a tincture. Not wanting to disrupt the delicate process of mixing, she slips quietly to the window, perching on the stool she sat the night before. For a time Alice watches the woman work. Weeping's lined hands are confident and strong despite her age. They move swiftly but with care, measuring with a lifetime of knowledge's surety.

The concoction in the mortar, she lifts her pestle and begins to grind everything together. The subtle scent of lemongrass and thyme infuses the air. Something eases within Alice as she breathes deep. A peace that's eluded her all afternoon settles over her shoulders.

“I see the young one has taken a shining to you,” Weeping says, breaking the gentle silence.

“Windwing? He dreams of travel and adventure.” She draws her knees up, resting the edges of her feet on the top rung of the stool.

_Can I just stay here? Forget honor, duty, and promises? Disappear into this cottage until I'm no longer Alice but Starfall alone?_

She could care for these people, have a purpose that fulfills her.

But no, she'd yearn, after a time, to see other worlds. Even knowing monsters might lurk in the shadows.

_And you would care for them but not restore them to their birthright?_

“Not so different from you and I. We're kin of a sort, us three. Wild ones. We cannot grow roots. It is a flaw of our kind.” Weeping pours cream into the mortar, adding a dash of a dark powder that smells like cloves.

“What about your life here? You grew roots.”

Weeping Turtle turns to her, wiping her hands on her apron. “I made a sacrifice for my people. It's not the same as settling down. It is why I live out here, by myself, instead of among the community. We are not comfortable in the trappings of a conventional life, you and I.” She shrugs, returning to the mixture. “But we sacrifice for those we love. We may never grow roots, but ties bond us to people, even across great distances. I will not forsake my people just because were circumstances different, a strong wind would uproot me.”

Her words sink into Alice. They fall again into a comfortable silence, Alice poking internally at the idea she's grown all day long. Then, “The curse. The one you placed on Allistar.”

Weeping sets the pestle down, lifting the mortar to strain the contents through a cheese cloth, filling a small vile with a pale cream liquid. “Yes?”

_Weeping gave them a choice they could not see and in doing so, liberated them._

“Do you recall much about it?”

Corking the vial she takes a wax pen and marks the bottle with a symbol only she knows the meaning of, setting it up on a shelf with a dozen others. Turning to face Alice, her face is solemn, aged even beyond her long years. Alice can see the weight of her long ago choice. “I remember everything.”

 

***

 

_ Present: _   
  


The knife sticks up from her hand, straight and upright even without Allistar holding it. The pain, such incredible pain, shoots up from that nexus of nerves, straight into her skull, exploding into starbursts that nearly blind her.

“Alice, stay with me Alice.” Will's voice calls to her softly, but she cannot tell if he's speaking that quiet or the shock has stuffed cotton in her ears. “You bastard!”

“Give me your final wish Will, and all will be well. Wish her hand healed, to be free of my clutches. You could even honor that noble streak within and wish her to a beautiful beach far from this cursed one with her genie. Give her what only you can, Will!” Allistar leans into Will's face. “Freedom and her true love.”

Will seethes with rage and hurt. His face wavering somewhere between distraught and murderous.

_My beautiful thief._

“Wish, wish, wish Will. And I'll stop.” Allistar hops back towards her, taking the handle of her small dagger into his palm without taking his eyes off Will. For a moment it seems as though he might remove it and Alice nearly releases a shuddering sigh of relief. But instead, he twists it ever so slightly to the right, igniting a firestorm of agony in Alice. She can't help her scream.

“I'm sorry, Alice. I'm sorry. I can't. I cannot endure this. I-”

Alice licks her lips, fighting through the desire to black out. She needs to remain awake. Needs to be able to speak, or everything was for naught.

Though, even now, she's wondering if she had it all wrong. Made the wrong choice. Some monsters couldn't be saved, they could only be slayed.

“ _You ask no small favor, Starfall Alice,” Weeping had said._

“ _Nor you.”_

“ _True. Very well, I will help you and may we be done with this terrible business.”_

“Allistar,” she manages, her voice hoarse from her earlier scream. Had that really only been seconds ago? It felt like that moment belonged to another Alice. A doppelganger with more courage than she's feeling at the moment. Still, she straightens in the chair, as much as the bonds will allow her. “Captain!”

Allistar cranes his neck to face her. Will's words fall silent, no wish spent yet. He watches her with tear stained eyes.

“I can break your curse.”

Allistar's face grows stoic, almost reverting him to the stern Captain of the Guard she'd known him to be once. His brows draw together, darkening his face in a cloud of tightly held control. “Somebody's been speaking to ghosts. I've no need of your help Alice. The genie's magic will give me what I want.”

Strength builds in her. “It won't.”

His control slips, revealing anger and a hint of fear. “And so you've come to talk me out of wresting this wish from your Knave with an offer to help? A pretty ploy that will not work on me. No, I think not. Will shall utter his final wish or I will take your other hand and you will never wield another blade again.”

“I do not play at ploys, Allistar. I _know_ it will not work. And I can prove it.”

“ _How much time will you need?” Alice asks._

_“A half an hour, no more. Windwing will send word once you've arrived."_

Allistar sneers. “Prove it? How?”

The air beside him begins to shimmer, growing starry white and swirling with an increasing velocity. Allistar falls back, mouth agape as a portal opens up beside him and out steps Weeping Turtle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears. This chapter came quickly, rushing out of me with force. Hope you enjoy! <3


	13. Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He feels her eyes on him, meets her gaze. Though there is only a few feet between them she feels miles away. He wants to touch her, stroke the hair back from her face and use his last wish to heal her hand. But it would be a betrayal of her trust, to use his final wish in such a manner. Not when she sacrificed her hand to bring Allistar this offer and hopefully save them all in the end. It would be a selfish wish honestly, because he wants to be the hero in her eyes. Wants to be worthy of everything good she’s ever thought him to be._

Will’s body vibrates with too many sensations to catalog properly. They flit through him, raking across his psyche before they’re replaced by others. Caught as he is in this torment, he barely registers the portal opening before a portly woman with greying hair and a stern face steps from nowhere.

He only intends to pull his gaze from Alice long enough to determine if she’s a new threat but she ends up holding his attention. Behind her, the white and stardust portal snaps shut and numbly he has the silly thought that the White Rabbit’s portal never looked quite like that.

“Hello, Allistar,” the woman says, arms folded into the massive sleeves of her pale linen cloak. Age crinkles at the edge of her eyes and lips, the hollow just under her lip, at her neck, but her eyes are alive with fire.

The former captain seems as hard pressed as Will to grasp what is happening. A shaking hand – index finger pointing – raises in front of him as he stutters incomprehensibly. Finally he manages to find words and they’re seething with rage and shock. “You…You! The very bane of my existence!”

Then he remembers himself and scrambles to a standing position, face red and puffy. Yelling, he grabs the woman’s throat with one hand. The other he curls into a fist at her collar bone, wrenching onto the fabric with enough force to pull her into him. His men stand ready to heed his command but they look between each other and Will can already begin to see the seeds of doubt.

She doesn’t fight Allistar, only keeps her ember bright eyes on his, lips thin and pursed.

“Kill her and the curse will never break.” Alice’s voice carries over sound of Allistar’s heaving breaths.

“I’ll find another way!” He squeezes harder, face a contorted mask of crimson and shadow. His men shuffle nervously. Something about the woman has them off kilter, almost as though they recognize her, or feel like they should.

“I dare you to gamble…” the woman says, with some difficulty, hands slipping from their sleeves.

Allistar pulls back, shock once again replacing his anger. “Do you value your life so little you’d challenge my ire? I’ve dreamed of your demise for years now.”

“I value life more than you could understand. It’s why I’ve no need to lie to you. I would have you search yourself and ask, have I ever begged for my life? When the Queen of Hearts used you to make her final attack on us, did I cower before you and ask that you spare our lives? When you betrayed us, us who had taken you in and trusted you when there was so little trust to be found in this place, did I beg you to have mercy?”

“Had you, I might have. I had her ear once again. I might have saved your people. But you are a faithless crone who chose to curse me instead.” Allistar eases his grip on her throat but he does not let go.

Will looks over at Alice, remembering a knife – his gift to her – still sticks up from the top of her sword hand. She looks wan, sweat matting her hair to her face. She’d allowed the torture to happen, all to buy this woman time to arrive? Who was she?

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

“They would not have needed saving were it not for your treachery. I ask you again, did I ever beg?” Her back is straight and though she stands a foot shorter than the former captain, her presence seems to fill the space around them. Hands out to either side of her, palms up and submissive, Will doesn’t believe for a second the woman is anything but in control of the situation.

Allistar is stunned into muteness, but he shakes his head. Will’s never seen the man so stricken, even when Alice soundly beat him in a one on one duel in front of his sovereign.

“I will not beg now. Starfall speaks the truth. The genie’s magic, though powerful, will not break this curse.”

 _Starfall?_ Will’s head swims with questions and the need to tear out of his bonds to get to Alice.

Stumbling back, Allistar finally releases the woman. She straightens the fabric at her collar, but aside from that there is no way to tell she’d been at the mercy of a vicious, misguided man only moments before. She moves over to Alice, gently cupping her face. Allistar does nothing to stop her, watches with wild eyes.

“Oh child, I came as soon as I could. Would that I arrived sooner.” She reaches into the folds of her cloak and pulls out a wad of bandages. Unrolling them, a small glass vial falls into her open palm. She uncorks the vial, pouring its contents onto the bandages. “I fear this will hurt nearly as much as it’s insertion.”

The woman grips the hilt of the blade, the other hand pressing gauze to the place where it’s pierced her skin. She searches Alice’s face, waiting for leave to pull it free. Alice bites her lower lip, mustering only the barest of nods. Her scream rents the air as the woman pulls it free, gently murmuring to soften the pain.

“You’ve a cruelty that knows no bounds,” the woman says over her shoulder to Allistar, who watches the whole scene, shell shocked. His men shift and fidget, uncomfortable with the older woman’s presence.

“And you,” she turns her words towards them. “To think those who descended from Brightshore have resorted to such vile deeds. Your people would be ashamed to see you harm as we were once so heartily harmed at the hands of others. You are of the _Portalis._ Such acts are beneath you.”

They manage to actually look embarrassed but Will only gives them the briefest of looks, his attention once again on Alice. Blade free, color begins to return to her face. The woman presses the hilt into her unwounded hand. Alice’s fingers curl around it.

“Thank you,” she says, voice ragged and fluttery.

 _Say something._ But he can’t. He’s mute, only able to watch this whole strange show unfold before him.

“How do I break this curse, Weeping Turtle?” Allistar asks, composing himself. The men begin to murmur. “I give you leave to tend her wounds now tell me how to end this.”

The woman, Weeping Turtle, continues to wrap Alice’s hands, ignoring him. Allistar snaps his fingers, not one to be ignored and his men inch forward, eyes wide and uncertain. She looks up at them, but with her back to Will he can’t make out her expression. It’s enough to stop them in their tracks. She finishes tying off the wrap and stands, another gentle cupping of Alice’s face before she turns to face Allistar.

“By returning to the land from where it was born and retrieving its counterpart; the Blessing of Many Roads.”

“And how do you suppose I’ll go about retrieving such a thing? Cursed as I am to never leave Shoreline?”

Things begin to click into place for Will. Allistar’s desperation, his need for the genie. He’d known they would come and find Cyrus but couldn’t find him without their help and so he’d waited, biding his time until Will reveled Cyrus’ location. He thought the genie could rid him of a curse Weeping Turtle had placed on him.

“You will not. I, Alice, and her people will go and retrieve it.”

Allistar’s face scrunches up in anger. “So you can flee and leave me here? Am I so gullible? I think not.”

“Where I must go is dangerous. Would you send me without an escort to protect me? I’ve not held a sword in longer than you’ve been alive, Allistar, or did you forget that detail about me when you sold us out to your queen?”

“If what you say is true, the genie is doubly useless to me, thanks to the Knave’s wish. Neither I nor my men can hurt him. You may have him and the sorcerer. But I will keep his bottle. And you, Will. I’ll keep you as collateral. Alice will not let you rot here just to save herself. Not knowing I could force you into using that last wish to trap her love in that bottle again.”

Alice’s face is full of emotion Will can’t read.

“I need a thief and a warrior for the job.” Weeping holds Allistar’s gaze.

The man looks pale at the thought of denying her, but his need to maintain _some_ control over the situation makes him shake his head. “No. Not Will and Alice together. You get one.”

Weeping considers for a moment, a quick glance between the two of them. Will feels his heart begin to beat erratically. He wishes – though utters no words, for it would doom them – for her to pick Alice. To take her far from Allistar’s mad clutches.

“Alice, then.” Her eyes are locked onto Will’s, as though she can read his thoughts, a genie of another kind, bestowing an unspoken wish on a ragged man at his last straw.

_I’d go mad, mad, mad as Allistar if I had to leave her here._

“Fine. Though little good Alice will be, given what I’ve done to her hand.” Allistar doesn’t sound pleased with his work, but neither does he sound remorseful for his actions.

Will wants to kill him in that moment. If he can only get his hand free and on a blade, he’ll plunge it into Allistar’s bloody heart.

“Well, all’s the worse for you, should something befall me.” Weeping turns full circle, taking the measure of each man in Allistar’s band. They can’t meet her gaze for long, seeing something in those deep pools that makes their faces flush with shame. She points to two, marking them with an extended bony index finger. “You, and you. You’ll send these men with us.”

“You’ve no right to command my men!” Allistar shouts, but he’s already marking the words as false, can see the change in them. The way they’re responding to Weeping Turtle like they’ve never responded to him. Even Will can see them casting glances at the wizened woman when her back is turned and there’s something like growing awe to be found there.

“If you want any hope of leaving this place before you shrivel up and turn to dust, you’ll command them to come with me.” She implies that he still has a say but Will knows the men will go with her regardless of Allistar. His only choice, to save face, is to agree and order them to go.

Now Weeping Turtle turns her attention fully on Will. Her eyes bore into his, which are dry and puffy now. The blur of tears has all but disappeared but they sting, raw at the edges. She stands in front of him, lifting his chin up so she can look him full in the face. “So it’s you,” she says, softly.

Confused, and not a bit dazed by the series of events as they’ve played out, he can only stare back. There’s power in this one. He can see it in her eyes. Eyes that remind him of Alice.

 _They’re made of the same steel_ , he muses. Tested, they do not break, they are forged stronger.

She turns back to Allistar. “Very well, we shall leave as soon as you release my retinue.” Her tone brokers no resistance. Weeping sounds like a seasoned commander and the men move around her, already starting to release Alice before they catch themselves, looking up to Allistar, who appears as dazed as Will feels. He waves his hand in the air, though it’s all for show. This is in Weeping Turtle’s hands now.

Facing Will again, her warm hand still framing his chin, she adds, “She will return for you.”

Licking his lips, Will says, “She’d better.”

A silent exchange happens between the two of them. He knows now this was the woman who healed Alice and saved her from death, but that will only buy her so much consideration. He expects her to retort or even huff in indignation but her eyes sparkle and the hint of a smile curls at the edge of her lips.

“Aye. I suspect I would be a doomed creature at any other outcome. By my ability, Knave, I will see her as safely as I can to our destination. After that, I cannot say. My father came by this curse at great cost and I held it for years out of respect for the lives it cost him to obtain it. But have faith in our Starfall. For it will be she who keeps us all safe.”

That’s the second time Weeping has called Alice Starfall. He wants to ask her what it means but she’s releasing his chin, turning to direct the two men she’s commandeered from Allistar’s thugs. They bow their heads, hurrying to carry out whatever tasks she’s given them and the moment is gone.

“Fear not, Knave. Alice will return. I have her lover’s bottle after all. The very thing that binds him to another’s will. She will not suffer me to have it for long.” Allistar sneers at Will, though most of the venom has gone out of his cruelty, as though he was nothing but hot air for so long and is finally releasing years of pent up steam. His skin is sallow and sunken and he looks ages older than he’s ever looked before.

Will thinks to bite back a scathing remark but in the moment he pities Allistar more than fears him. Instead, he simply says, “I feel sorry for the bloke who stands between Alice and Cyrus.”

He feels her eyes on him, meets her gaze. Though there is only a few feet between them she feels miles away. He wants to touch her, stroke the hair back from her face and use his last wish to heal her hand. But it would be a betrayal of her trust, to use his final wish in such a manner. Not when she sacrificed her hand to bring Allistar this offer and hopefully save them all in the end. It would be a selfish wish honestly, because he wants to be the hero in her eyes. Wants to be worthy of everything good she’s ever thought him to be.

He recalls the warmth of her body pressed against his. The utter desperation with which she ran to him. Had that been relief alone or something more? Cyrus had seen but the genie had said nothing, eyes dark and unfathomable.

“Alice,” he says, unsure what more can be said that his tears and screams haven’t already. He’d have wished it any other way if it hadn’t meant Cyrus’ doom. Or theirs. He might have wished the genie free, a last heroic act, but then Allistar might have killed them for once again taking from him. And _‘I’m sorry’_ feels a paltry sentiment for the wounds inflicted upon her body and heart.

He’s not sure what he expects but it isn’t the small smile she flashes him. She almost looks like Alice from before Bethlem. Alice on the war path to find proof of Wonderland’s existence for all who doubted her. And for a moment he feels like everything will be okay. Like he can face anything for a smile like that.

She opens her mouth to say something to him but Allistar steps in front of him, cutting his bonds and motioning two men to lift him and return him to the cellar.

“Wait,” he whispers, needing to hear her. “Wait.”

But they drag him away.

 

***

 

Below ground again, Will has just enough time for Cyrus to ask him about Alice, for Aayushmaan to study him with inscrutable eyes, before his escorts set him down and begin to unhook the others.

“Will!” Cyrus pleads, eyes frantic.

Will looks at him, half disassociated from everything, half dreading replying. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I couldn’t protect her.”

The genie’s face falls. “She’s…”

“Ah, hell. Sorry, mate. I don’t mean it like that. You know Alice, I don’t think there’s anything that can take her down when she’s got it in her heart to keep on. I just mean…” he looks away in shame, “you’ll see soon enough.”

“What’s to happen?” Aayushmaan asks, rubbing at his wrists where the cuffs have cut into him. His question is to Will, to the men unhooking them, to anyone that might answer.

“Alice cleverly plotted for your release,” Allistar says from the stairs.

Cyrus looks to Will for confirmation. “All of us? At what price?”

“Not him, I’m afraid. He stays with me. As does your bottle. Alice has promised to break a curse in exchange for your lives. I’ve deemed the terms acceptable. The Knave and your bottle will be returned upon completion of her quest.”

 _You had little choice_ , Will thinks, but remains silent.

There’s pity in Cyrus’ eyes but also a yawning distance. As though the genie might, the tiniest bit, be glad that the Knave will not be accompanying them on this quest. He swallows hard, darting a glance at Aayushmaan. “And the sorcerer? What of him?”

“He can come if he wishes, but I won’t ask him to.” Alice’s voice drifts down the stairs to them. It sounds stronger. As she descends into the firelight all eyes turn towards her. Cyrus sucks in a breath when he spies the bandage around her hand. It’s already spotting with blood. Will can see the knife that inflicted the wound is sheathed once again to her wrist.

“What has he done to you?” Cyrus gently lifts her hand but Alice pulls it back.

“Nothing I wasn’t willing to allow.” She says this with confidence but Will can tell she’d not expected Allistar to do what he’d done. “It will heal.”

Will can see the unspoken question Cyrus’ eyes. It’s the same one rolling around in his own head. _How well?_

Aayushmaan steps forward, bowing his head before Alice. “I would follow you, Alice. Wherever my son goes, I wish to go as well.”

She nods despite Cyrus’ protest. “Your help would be welcome, Aayushmaan.” Turning to Allistar she adds, “I’d like a moment alone to speak with Will.”

Allistar takes a mocking bow, scowl on his face. “Your wish is my command, _my lady._ ” He snaps his fingers and his men climb the stairs, leaving her alone with Cyrus, Will, and the sorcerer.

Her eyes are locked onto Will’s, unwavering. Finally, Will can hear Aayushmaan say, “Let us leave them to their goodbyes, my son.”

They take their leave, though Cyrus does so reluctantly.

When they’ gone a solid moment, Alice finally comes to kneel before him. He’s unbound on the chair, but he resists the urge to pull her back into his arms. The moment outside is one he’ll relish and despise equally for a long time. He looks at her wounded hand.

_Should have done something._

Alice lifts his head up till their eyes meet. “Forgive me. I should have told you. About Weeping Turtle and my plan. I couldn’t risk that Allistar would overhear. Will, I am sorry that it is you that must stay behind. I would take your place.”

 _No. Never._ He cannot bear the thought.

Her hand comes to a rest over his heart, eyes full of a tender sadness. “And if I’d the power, I’d take your heart so you’d feel none of these past weeks. A small reprieve from so much heartache.”

 _If this is to be a final goodbye then let there be nothing left unsaid,_ he thinks. Because an idea is forming. And if it plays out the way he hopes, this might be the last time he sees her.

“Someone once told me it was better to feel something than nothing at all. Besides, you already have my heart, Alice,” he says, softly, barely trusting his voice to carry the weight of those words. He’s laced them with everything he feels for her. Guilt wants in, but he shoves that aside. Cyrus would have his time soon enough to remind her of her true love.

He expects her to deny this, to mention their undying friendship. He expects everything but the gentle parting of her lips and the knowing look in her eyes. She’s on the brink of saying something, and he’s too far too brittle to handle what she might say, so he continues, “My dreams. The ones you think are about Ana. They’re not about her, Alice. They’re about you.”

Her brows pinch together. “About me?”

“About…losing you. In them I’m always too late to save you from Bethlem. And it terrifies me that had I come a day later, had the White Rabbit not found me in Storybrooke when he did…you’d be gone. Alive, but forever changed.”

“But you saved me. You arrived in time.” She smiles now, cupping the side of his face with her unbandaged hand. “I owe you so much. You, who mean so much to me.”

She doesn’t call him friend, and he notices something has changed in the way she looks at him. It makes his pulse quicken. He wants to test the waters of this new found regard but he dares not. She searches his face. Looking for an answer to something?

“She wanted him dead, Will,” she says, changing the subject. “I had to offer her another option. One that would not add to the blood already on both our hands.”

“What part of Wonderland will you travel to, just to set him free? To finally be free yourself?” Will allows himself to clasp her hand, not at all afraid of the blood that might stain them. It seems safe enough, even though electricity zaps through his blood at the contact.

She shakes her head. “Not Wonderland. We go to someplace far away. Through the open portal on the Sea of Tears. Weeping was the one keeping the portal open for all these years. In part as defiance. A taunt to the Queen of Hearts and also as a reminder to the people she could not save. A beacon of hope, so they never forgot who they were.”

“The _Portalis_ , eh? So they’re still alive?” He tries not to suck in a breath when she strokes a finger of the top of his hand, sending shivers through him.

“In the mountains. A whole people, in hiding, waiting for a war to end that’s never quiet died. The Queen of Hearts may be gone, but they haven’t truly been allowed to return home.” She tells him them about Weeping Turtle and her people and time with them. She tells him about her interactions with Windwing, the curious gryphon and for a wondrous moment it feels like they’re back at their campfire confessionals, speaking as though they’re not about to be parted by yet another bloody quest. Alice seems light of heart, smiling as she describes the mismatched town and its inhabitants. And something about the courtships of gryphons, which she seems to have expansive knowledge of, thanks to Windwing.

“So you are Starfall now?” He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

She laughs, the sound golden soft and heart filling. “Windwing named me thus because I fell from the sky. The gryphons name their young on attributes that describe them. Weeping said it suits.”

“You’ll always be Alice to me,” he says. “But it’s a great alias. You know, since you’re to be thief _and_ warrior in this coming adventure.”

Her eyes sparkle, a smug grin on her lips. “I learned a thing or two from a first rate thief. He’s quite full of himself.”

Pretending at indignation, he huffs, “I earned that title, love.” Then he grows serious. “Take my jacket. There are tools of the trade in every pocket. Do not leave without it. Something in there might mean the difference between success and failure.”

“And here I thought the Knave needed only his cunning and charm to steal something.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh and it feels like stretching a limb, wondrously pleasant and a weight eases in his chest for a moment. Just one.

Will clings to the moment, wishing – even as he knows it must – it would never end.

 _Only a moment longer_ , he pleads. “So, Starfall, tell me again about the gryphon courting rituals.”

When she finishes the full telling of her adventure the light begins to dim in her eyes, the gravity of their situation falling on her shoulders once again.

“I’m coming back for you, Will.”

“Never doubted it for a second, love.” But his plan’s already formed. One that will finally, and fully, set her free. He doesn’t dare speak a word of it, knowing her heart is too big right now to do what must be done. And he wants her safe and far away before he does it. So he gives her his best smile, the one he reserves for mischief, mayhem, and his Alice. One of confidence and surety.

And she returns it, surprising him by leaning forward to place a hard kiss to his forehead. “There are things left to say, Knave. Promise me you will endure until I return. Promise me.”

“Oi! Time’s up, princess,” Allistar calls from the stairs. He sounds impatient. Ready to be rid of the lot of them. He stomps down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to stare at her.

Alice continues to hold Will’s eyes. “Promise me.”

Will licks his lips, can still feel her kiss like a brand on his skin. “I promise, Alice.”

Satisfied, Alice finally turns to face Allistar. “Know this, Allistar. If you harm Will, I will return and carry out Weeping Turtle’s original request.”

Allistar’s eyes narrow. “What request was that?”

She glances one more time back at Will, eyes soft, full of so much emotion it makes Will’s chest flutter in response. Then she turns back to Allistar, striding past him with confidence. “I’ll kill you.”

Unsettled, Allistar tries for a retort, only to fall silent, eyes haunted as they follow her trail up the steps. He looks to Will but there’s no comfort to be found there.

“Better her who found Weeping Turtle than me, Allistar. I’d not have tried to find a better way.”

Allistar turns on his heel, not bothering to bind Will to his chair. Then he’s alone in the cellar.

_There are things left to say, Knave._

“Forgive me, Alice,” he says to the empty room. He leans forward till his head rests in his palms, thoughts churning through his head.

Because, for the first time ever, he doesn’t intend to keep his promise to her. He’ll wait a day or two, just long enough that she’s through the portal with Cyrus and away from Allistar, then he’ll carry out his plan the next chance he gets; he’ll use his last wish and finally set her free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings. Up next, new sights, new adventures. Alice must grapple with her heart and Cyrus begins to understand the darker side of what she's had to endure.


	14. To The Land of Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the flash of light Alice spots the fins of serpent-like monsters as they crest the waters, snouts with teeth as large as her hand flashing and gnashing at the frothy sea. The fins of sirens splash, their hair like swaying kelp. Thankfully they’re high enough and the storm loud enough their dangerous song does not reach them._
> 
> _Ahead, a bolt arcs through the clouds and Alice watches as one of the gryphon barely avoids being struck. But the wind spins them, and then, after a frozen moment of suspension, they fall from the sky._

Alice steps through the opening in the wall of a small room at the back of the house. The air isn’t exactly fresh but it feels cool on her heated skin. The pale sun rises over the horizon but its light is dimmed by the stubborn moonlight streaming through the portal at the edge of the known world. Soon they’ll cross over into a strange new world and she finds she’s nervous. Despite all her desire for adventure, she’s only been two places. London – with a small stint in Storybrooke – and Wonderland.

She can feel Cyrus’ eyes on her; she pulls on Will’s jacket, and turns to face him.

There doesn’t seem to be time to say everything she needs to say to him, so she turns to Weeping who watches the two of them silently from the side. Flanking her, Allistar’s men are laden with bags full of provisions. Their scowls have softened, replaced by curiosity and awe. They’ve not likely left their Shoreline homes and this journey must seem a grand and terrifying thing looming before them.

 _Oh, to feel that sense of wonder at the start of a new adventure._ It’s been some time since she last felt the thrill of exploration tug at her. Now she just wants a moment to stop and breath, a moment to finally settle the turmoil in her heart.

“Are we ready, child?” Weeping asks, gentle understanding in her eyes.

The attention makes Alice’s skin prickle, especially with Cyrus watching her so intently. Truthfully, she feels like her heart is back in the cellar, but she doesn’t say it, just nods her head.

“How are we to get through the portal on the sea?” Cyrus asks. “The tales about the churning waters and fell beasts are not without some truth. Alice and I passed through this way once on our travels. The locals have lost sailors to those waters.”

His reminder of their time in Shoreline makes her flinch inwardly. They’d been happier then, traveling Wonderland looking for a story to tell. Nostalgia’s tug is not without power and she gives him a glance under thick eyelashes. Her heart clenches.

“We will not be going by sea,” Weeping says. She whistles into the early morning air and all eyes turn skyward as the air swirls around them, lifting up and tossing about hair and the ends of coats and cloaks. Out of the low hanging clouds four gryphons descend, wings beating gracefully. Everyone except Alice and Weeping Turtle pull back in shock.

“Gryphons!” One of Allistar’s men shouts.

“They’re real,” breathes his companion, eyes wide.

Windwing lands beside Alice, bumping her shoulder with his head in a sign of affection and greeting. She runs a hand over his mottled feathers. He makes a keening noise, shifting back and forth on his talons in excitement.

“This is Windwing and his hatchmates, Silvertail, Lightstreak, and Cragmaw. They’ve agreed to accompany us,” Alice says.

At their names, each one stands regally, feathers puffing out in a show of pride. Silvertail is taller than the others, with a sheen to her feathers that deepens towards her tail, ending in a tuft of shock silver hair that gleams in the morning light like a coin.

Beside her, Lightstreak stands a head shorter, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in speed. Whip fast, the tawny furred and caramel feathered gryphon had been the one to bring Alice to Shoreline in record time, dropping her off at the foothills in time to see Will escaping.

Cragmaw is the oldest of the four by a few minutes – though that might as well have been years to hear him tell it – with a beak sharp and strong enough to break stone, earning him his name. Pitch black in fur and feather, his eyes shine like twin emerald fires.

All four are strapped with simple leather harnesses which allow for up to two riders; remnants of a war they’re too young to have lived through.

Alice gives them each a nod, acknowledging their bravery, though she knows it’s less courage that drives them than curiosity.

“Hatchmates? They look nothing alike,” one of Allistar’s goons says.

“They have different parents. The gryphons hatch their eggs in a communal group so they can be better guarded. It is a tradition born of dire circumstances that stayed long after things returned to normal.” Weeping dips her head at Cragmaw, who returns the gesture, lowing himself on his forepaws so she can climb up into the saddle.

“Some of us will have to double up. Alice, I imagine you will be fine with Cyrus. You,” she points to Allistar’s men, “will have to decide if you will ride together or if one of you is brave enough to ride with the sorcerer.”

They glance at Aayushmaan whose arms are folded into the sleeves of his massive cloak, striking an imposing figure. Free of the magical constraints of the cellar he looks ready to unleash some magic at the slightest provocation. His posture dares either man to take up the challenge, though he makes it clear, in expression only, it will be _he_ who holds the pommel.

In the end they decide to fly tandem on Silvertail, much to Weeping’s amusement.

The sorcerer climbs upon Lightstreak’s back and Alice can’t help feeling like the small gryphon had hoped they might be paired together. A man with such power on a gryphon who moves whip fast like light beams bouncing off mirrors? They were a formidable pair, sleek and deadly looking.

Alice shakes the foreboding from her head. _Look for shadows and you will only ever see the dark._

She turns to tie her pack to a small flat part at the back of the harness meant for carrying supplies. As she turns back to call over Cyrus she spies Allistar talking with the genie. Cyrus’ face grows solemn. Eyes dark, he clenches his fist over something Allistar is holding, ripping it from his grip. Allistar smiles but backs away, walking past Alice.

“What are you up to, Allistar?” she asks, catching at his sleeve to stop him.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about it, Alice. Private conversation between your genie and me.” Allistar turns to leave then spins back. “And I’d hurry back, darling dear, because I’ve given Weeping the deadline of one week. If you are not back by then I’ll see to it that Will never steals another things as long as he lives.” He makes a swift chopping motion with his hand. “You’ll be twins of a kind then.”

Alice pulls back in horror. “One week? There’s no way.”

Allistar shrugs. “She believes it can be done. Or at least, she believes I won’t accept anything less. I want off this cursed land, Alice and I don’t care who I take down with me to see it done.” He leans in real close, eyes dancing with madness and malice. Gently, with hot lips, he sears her forehead with a kiss.

She pulls back, stumbling into Cyrus, who steadies her.

Allistar laughs, moving his finger like a musical conductor. “The debts comes due, Alice. One week, one week and I’ll have my blessing or I’ll gift you the hands of your precious knave.”

Alice starts to throw herself at him as he walks away, the trail of laughter making her blood boil, but Cyrus stops her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

“He baits you. Knows it will upset you to feel helpless and will delight in that. Do not give him the satisfaction, Alice.” Cyrus says, turning her towards him.

She lets him tear her gaze away from Allistar, thoughts of Will tumbling through her head. Cyrus searches her eyes, holding her till she nods. “You’re right. And we must waste no time.” She calls for Windwing, who prances over excitedly.

With a graceful dip, the gryphon kneels and allows Alice to climb into the saddle. Cyrus remains turned away from her for a moment, watching Allistar. Then, he turns and joins her, slipping his arms around her waist with hesitation.

She stiffens at the touch, even knowing there is nothing to be done about it. It’s intimate and strange at the same time. Months ago she’d dreamed of these very arms wrapping themselves around her one more time. Now, it feels like a stranger sits at her back, whose scent is familiar and whose warmth is inviting, but whose heart she’s no longer sure she knows.

With a signal from Weeping, they all lift into the air and head for the Sea of Tears, Cragmaw in the lead. Silvertail follows closely with Lightstreak at Windwing’s side so Aayushmaan can keep an eye on his son.

They’re a distance over the water when it occurs to Alice to ask Cyrus what Allistar said to him just before leaving, but Cragmaw squawks a warning as the winds begin to pick up and the thought is lost as they prepare for rough weather.

 

***

 

The crossing is harrowing, winds buffeting them and tossing them about like paper dolls. The gryphons ride the currents with some skill but several times Alice feels the sickening drop of her stomach as Windwing’s is forced to plunge low to gain any headway. She clings to his nape, feathers and fur sticking in wild, wind tossed tufts between her pale fingers. It’s painful with her wound but she grits her teeth around the pain, grinding it up like grain under Weeping’s pestle.

At her waist, Cyrus tightens his hold, pressing himself into her so they can lean in as close as possible to Windwing. She’d tied her hair back but the ribbon threatens to pull loose. She can feel his face pressed into the place where her hair meets her neck and the sensation of his warm breath against her skin rattles her.

They dip and duck and dodge unseen whorls of air which the gryphons seem to sense in enough time to avoid being cast into the churning sea below them.

The clouds begin to press in the closer they fly to the storm. Soon, Alice loses sight of Weeping Turtle and the others. Even Aayushmaan disappears at their side, Lightstreak hidden by the angry, chilling clouds. The gryphons don’t seem worried though, calling out to each other through the storm periodically to stay in contact.

Alice feels the cold nip her cheeks but Will’s jacket staves off the worst of the temperature drop and Cyrus’ heat keeps her warm at her back.

The rain hits next, followed by a strike of cloud to cloud lightning that blinds her. The clap of thunder that trails after thrills her, setting her heart to racing. It sounds as though the whole world is nothing but that booming sound for a moment. As though gods are shouting down to them from the heavens. The vibration rumbles through her chest and then, just as quickly as it trumpets, there is only the sound of rain.

Another streak of lightning zips so close Alice can feel the airs on her arms raise, goose-pimpling her skin. The rest of her responds to the perceived threat, tense and alert, but her mind tells her body there is nothing to be done. No enemy to fight up here, at least none to be taken down by sword or dagger. She is in the hands of Windwing.

And the gryphon shows her just how he earned his name. It’s as though he dances with the wind itself, contorting and twirling around currents only he can see till he’s nearly one with the air around him. He doesn’t seem to fight against the flow so much as bend around its direction and slip between gusts like a snake might slip through blades of grass, or a fish might dart through seaweed. She can feel the graceful extension and contraction of his muscles beneath her.

The boom of thunder rattles her teeth this time and she stifles the urge to bellow into the sky like a Valkyrie. A mission most dire and she’s beginning to feel the slightest hint of elation at _doing,_ at being active. Whatever lies on the other side of the portal, she’s ready to meet it head long.

_I will return, Will._

Another bolt lights the sky, illuminating tiny dark dots in the distance. The others.

And beyond them, the door to another world, hanging like a picture in the middle of the ocean. Its mirror sea is tranquil and still like glass, its moon impossibly large and so silver it’s nearly white. Waves beat at the lip of the portal where it hovers just over the tossing water, frothy fingers trying to breach the portal and disturb the placid ocean on the other side.

In the flash of light Alice spots the fins of serpent-like monsters as they crest the waters, snouts with teeth as large as her hand flashing and gnashing at the frothy sea. The fins of sirens splash, their hair like swaying kelp. Thankfully they’re high enough and the storm loud enough their dangerous song does not reach them.

Ahead, a bolt arcs through the clouds and Alice watches as one of the gryphon barely avoids being struck. But the wind spins them, and then, after a frozen moment of suspension, they fall from the sky.

Alice cries out in shock, ready to urge Windwing forward but the gryphon is already folding his wings in tight for a dive. Then they’re falling too, with controlled purpose, after the spiraling gryphon. The closer they get Alice can tell it’s Weeping Turtle and Cragmaw.

He’s on his back, wings flapping wildly. He can’t seem to turn over with Weeping hanging as she is from the saddle. Her cloak is wrapped around her such at that Alice cannot see the woman’s face. Somehow she’s able to hold on without falling and Alice catches sight of Aayushmaan, arm extended. His face is grim, spattered with rain. He’s trying to use his magic to hold her up, keep as much weight off her arms as possible. Alice can tell it’s taking a toll on him and each time a cloud obscures his view, she slips a little further from her hold on the harness.

Below, the serpents have spotted the plummeting morsels. Their maws open wide, ready to pluck their treat from the air. Their eyes are bottomless pools of black, set in brown and grey scales. The sirens float on the top of the chaotic waves, their skin every color in the ocean, from coral pinks to cobalt blues to seafoam green, fading into prismatic tails that flip up out of the water. They beckon their prey closer, mouths open in song that Alice can’t quite hear over the howl of the wind.

Windwing shrieks at his hatchmates and they’re suddenly there, moving together in a formation around Cragmaw. The ocean draws closer but Windwing pulls in tighter. Alice hugs him, feeling Cyrus press even closer to her back, trying to lower any wind resistance by making themselves as small as possible. One hand is around her waist, his other holding to the pommel, brushing against her own throbbing hand.

Lightstreak and Silvertail flank Cragmaw as Windwing closes in. The ocean looks impossibly close now, as though Alice could trail her fingers through the water if she lowered her hand. And the monsters would thank her for her, snatching her from the back of her gryphon. Alice imagines she can see stains on their teeth, dull rusty brown splotches. _Old blood._ Her heart beats wildly, thunder echoing above them so loudly it makes her head throb. She knows all she can do is watch and trust.

Silvertail and Lightstreak break their fall, pulling up slightly till they’re above Windwing but remain on either side of Cragmaw. Then Windwing pulls back, extending his claws till they latch onto Cragmaw’s. When they’re locked tight, Windwing gives them a single warning.

“Hold on Starfall!”

She tightens her grip, Cyrus clinging to her.

Then the world spins on its axis, tilting wildly to the side as Windwing pulls up and pulls them to the side. They’re spinning in the air. Cragmaw is right-side up, then below them, then above them again.

The ocean draws up, waves reaching hungrily for them. The sirens wailing, tendrils of their song reaching her, lulling her.

Above, below, above. The whole world continues to spin and somehow Alice manages to spot Silvertail and Lightstreak above them, waiting for something. Pain gnaws at her hand and from the corner of her eyes she can see the rose red bloom of blood soaking through the bandage.

Then Windwing squawks something to Cragmaw and the next time he’s upright Windwing releases his hold, going into a spin as he pushes off his hatchmate. Lightstreak and Silvertail fly in close to steady Cragmaw. Weeping pulls her cloak from around her face. They pull up, wings beating at the air to give them some distance from the violent sea below. Aayushmaan sags in his saddle, face ashen and fatigued.

Windwing continues to spiral down, but it’s not the same out of control fall as Cragmaw. He pulls up suddenly and swiftly, spreading his wings to lift them on a current which carries them towards the others, pulling them away from the fingertips of sirens and the bloody teeth of serpent monsters.

Below them the sea wails and thrashes, seeming to mourn their escape.

 _You’ll not claim us today_ , Alice thinks. Thanks to the gryphons.

They reach the portal and, with one last rumble of thunder, pass through into another world.

 

***

 

Here the wind is calm, the clouds fat and pearly white cathedrals in the distance, the moon bathing everything in pale luminescence. The air is sweet smelling, like honey and sweet milk with a slight tang of salt just underneath. Below them, the mirror sea is flat as glass, their reflections streaking across its surface like silk.

Where the sky meets the sea there is a long, sinewy stretch of land, dark in the twilight. Weeping heads for that stretch, the other gryphons following her lead.

Alice drinks in the view, breathing deep as she eases back in the saddle. Then she feels it. A humming under her skin. A gentle vibration that tickles at her nerves. It makes her want to itch at the places she feels it, but the trouble is, it’s everywhere. Her whole body is alive with the tremor. It charges her, like building energy just behind a capacitor.

Behind her, Cyrus gasps. “Can you feel that?”

She lifts her arms, half expecting to see sparks racing through her veins, lighting her up from within. It’s just her skin, but she can certainly feel it. “What is it?

“I don’t know but it feels, powerful. Like the air, this whole place, is charged with magic. A wish spent here would be…strong. I’d almost believe the impossible wishes could be possible here.” He sounds out of breath, voice full of awe. He’s lifted his arms from around her, stretching them out to either side of him, curling his fingers into fists, then back out again till their flat, palms up.

She wants to share his thrill and wonder but whatever has him tingling all over has her shuddering. It’s almost as though something wants her to speak, to conjure, to _use_ power, but for all her time in Wonderland she’s never learned how to wield magic, only ever used items of a magical nature, and this new sensation has her worried. How easy would it be to utter a spell here and bring the whole world down to its knees?

She can see it now, the masses knelt in submission, the glorious roar of victory, her name on every lip, the blood of her enemies coating her sword, her hands, splattered like paint on her pale skin…

 _Speak it._ The voice is foreign, far away and wispy like mist, floating through her head.

Alice stares at horizon, a feeling of dread pooling in her stomach. Because for a brief moment, a tiny second, she’d relished the imagery.

_Alice Starfall, the Bloody Queen._

“Fly fast, Windwing,” she whispers to the gryphon as they make for landfall.

 

***

 

Their landing is far less graceful than their Shoreline launch, each gryphon tired from the storm they’ve just passed through.

Allistar’s men leap from Silvertail, rushing towards Weeping to help her off Cragmaw. She waves them away but lets them take the packs from the harness, which surprisingly, survived Cragmaw’s plummet. She climbs down and Alice catches her small sigh of relief and shaky brush of fingers through her wind-whipped hair.

Aayushmaan joins them, Lightstreak trailing close behind. The gryphon seems to have taken a liking to the sorcerer. There’s a quick look over, assuring himself that Weeping Turtle is indeed fine, then he asks, “What is this place?”

 _Why does it feel so strange_ , Alice wants to ask, but keeps quiet. She isn’t sure anyone other than her and Cyrus feel the power in the air. This close to the portal the land is blanketed by the same half-light as Shoreline; not quiet day, not quiet night. Alice isn’t sure how anyone could function with such an endless twilight surrounding them. Already it’s seeped into her bones, filling her with a deep weariness that begs her to stop, lay down, and sleep forever.

“This place has many names. Those who find paradise here call it _Tír na nÓg_ , Land of the Young. Others call it _Annwn_ , others _Magh Meall_ , the Plain of Joy. But my father once told me its first name. The name hidden just under the beautiful façade of this place. _Tir Tairngire_ , the Land of Promise. Most of the magic in the known worlds can be traced to this place. It is the birthplace of the wish and many other dangerous magics.” Weeping strokes Cragmaw, her face growing serious. She gives them a hard look. “We must be careful here. There are tales that paint this place as a kind of heaven. And it can be. My father knew many days of bliss here, but he also saw the reality of this place’s danger. What can be wished for, what can be promised, in the darkest parts of our hearts, that is the true lure of this place. What is born here is neither solely good nor bad. It is both and nothing. It is whatever it chooses.”

“You mean…” Cyrus starts.

“Magic is alive here. Sentient. And it wants to be used. We must be on guard.” Weeping looks at Cyrus and Aayushmaan. “Those touched by magic will feel its pull first. I imagine you feel it even now?”

Cyrus nods, Aayushmaan as well. Alice can feel the genie’s gaze on her but he doesn’t out her.

“It’s…strong,” Cyrus admits. “But it isn’t like I can do anything about the pull. Will has my remaining wish, which is the only source of magic I have.”

Weeping purses her lips, eyeing Cyrus. “Yes, the root of your magic, long ago, came from this place. I’m not surprised you feel it so strongly. But do not think that you are safe simply because you do not have magic manifest in you like the sorcerer. This place will put the means into your hands and then convince you to use it.” She looks at Aayushmaan. “It will pull even harder on you.”

Alice imagines the throngs of supplicants bowing before her. Begging her honor, her justice, her wrath. She remembers the blood and shudders. But a part of her isn’t entirely sure if it’s from revulsion or a warping sense of elation.

She wants to get out of this place, and quickly.

“The rest of us will feel its call soon enough. Be vigilant.” With that final word Weeping calls for camp. Though it’d been day in Shoreline – of a kind – the journey, short as it was, has taken much from the gryphons and they need to recoup their strength to fly over the mountains in the morning.

They stretch out flat sleeping rolls, threadbare and thin, in a circle. The air isn’t exactly chilly but neither is it warm so Alice leaves Will’s jacket on; they won’t be making a fire this night. Cyrus lays his bedroll out besides hers, though he set it with space between them, giving her a sidelong glance she quickly avoids. Then he’s at her back, gently reaching a hand around to touch her wrist, just above the bandage on her hand, red bloom drying into a dirty brown.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, the question so full of concern she lets herself nearly falls into his arms. The impulse is familiar but at its core an aching thorn holds her back. He senses the distance between them, lets her hand fall away so he can step back.

“It’s manageable,” she lies. He knows it’s a lie, but doesn’t contradict her. It would be so easy to let him care for her. So much easier, too, if he didn’t hold so much of her history and her heart. But the scales have tipped and she can’t seem to meet his gaze.

 _He deserves better_ , she thinks. Freedom, love, someone who wasn’t torn between loyalties, who wasn’t falling in love with another man. Someone who didn’t have so much blood on her hands, so much darkness in her heart.

 _So much promise in your heart_ , a voice whispers. _You could be Queen. The Bloody Queen of Tir Tairngire._

“I’ll see if Weeping Turtle has anything to help you sleep.” He turns away.

“Cyrus?” she can’t help calling out. He turns back, eyes full of an unreadable – or too raw to admit she can read? – emotion. “Thank you.”

Weeping mixes her a small tonic, rebandaging her hand with fresh gauze and a smattering of thick ointment. The wound is already clotting, the red snake of infection yet to rear its ugly head. She clicks her tongue as she works, gently wrapping it again and patting the hand.

“It will heal nicely, I do not think he cut through any tendons. Whether be design or sheer luck, he avoided them. A clean through cut, though by twisting it he has prolonged the healing by a few weeks. The bruising will be…extensive.”

Alice thanks her and makes her way to her bedroll. Cyrus is already laying on his back, staring up at the dusky purple sky overhead, to left Aayushmaan has already fallen asleep. She lays down, silence falling over them as the others begin to settle in for the night.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Will should have wished your hand healed. Or wished you far away from Allistar’s reaches. Once he saw you were alive, he should have used what power he had–”

She cuts him off. “I told him not to.”

Cyrus shifts on the bedroll, facing her. “Alice, he could have killed you.”

“And had Will wished me free? Allistar would have you and Will would have no more use. Would you rather that? Especially once he realized your magic couldn’t break his curse?”

“I’d rather you were safe.”

“I haven’t been safe for a long time, Cyrus. And certainly never at the expense of others. Not when I have a say in it.” The words come out harsher than she intends. But it’s the truth. There has been little time to feel safe in Wonderland, before even Wonderland. Bethlem had been its own kind of danger and before that? They’d been running from the Red Queen, from Ana.

“I’m sorry for that. It’s my fault you’re tangled up in this. I saw…I saw him kill Ana.” The way Cyrus says her name reminds Alice that he and the Red Queen had spent some time together. “And then I saw you charge and he used his magic to send me back into the bottle and far away once again and all I could think was how Ana was dead and you could so easily have been next. Will told me the bolt he sent to kill you struck your necklace instead.”

She reaches up to her collar bone on instinct, but it’s gone. Lost when she fell off the mountain. “Yeah, it saved me. I’m sorry Cyrus. The necklace is gone. It broke when I fell.”

His face goes hard for a moment, smooth like tan stone. Then it softens, his voice lowering. “It’s okay, Alice. What matters is you’re alive. Alive and here with me. We’ll save Will, together.”

She doesn’t know what to say so she reaches out a hand to him. He stares at it for a moment, then takes it. Then she turns on her side to face him and before he can say more, she’s lost to sleep, her hand in his.

 

***

 

In her dreams she runs through a dark hallway. It feels like Bethlem but the air smells dank, earthy, as though she ran through stone cut paths in the belly of the earth. She knows someone pursues her but she cannot see their face, she does not know their name. Even their voice, echoing through the inky black, is foreign to her.

She’s a rabbit and the hounds bite at her heels.

Deeper and deeper into the dark she runs. Endlessly running.

Till her feet – which, she only now realizes are bare – step onto air and she’s falling. Tumbling down, down, down. Just like when she came to Wonderland.

_Where will I land this time?_

Light beneath her – above her, beneath her, above her as she tumbles – rises, enfolding her in pearly brightness. Blinded, she covers her face. Then she lands, with surprising softness, on what feels like spongey grass. She removes her hands and gasps at the paradise around her.

Verdant greenery in full bloom surrounds her, the entire spectrum of colors dotting the landscape in the form of flowers and leaves and delicate pods hanging off thin vines curling up around stone formations. At the center of the massive cavern stands a tree ten times the size of the largest tree she’s ever seen, branches as thick as tree trunks fanning out over the entirety of the cavern.

She’s draped across the tree’s massive moss covered roots, which have breached the plush carpet of grass like knotty brown whales cresting an emerald sea. Above her, a shaft a light pierces the darkness and illuminates the entire cavern in dewy gold light, dappling the air with translucent plumes that look like floating bubbles. She isn’t sure if it’s the sun or some unnatural light but it’s warm against her chilled skin.

Alice shifts, trying to sit up when the root itself lifts beneath her, helping her stand.

“Thank you,” she says, though she feels a little foolish for thanking a tree. But it _had_ helped her. And it was polite to thank someone (or _something_ ) when it helped you.

“Alice,” a small voice says behind her.

She turns, spotting a small boy at her back. But upon a closer look she can’t exactly tell if he really _is_ a boy. His face is youthful, almost fey, but at times the light flits across his features and he looks as old as Weeping Turtle. He’s slight, with sun kissed skin, rich and dark. Amber freckles dot his face and along his collar bone, reminding her of a fawn. He’s shirtless, lithe in build, and his doeskin pants are cut off at the knees, his feet as bare as hers. On his forehead two little horns poke through his chocolate tresses.

“Hello,” she says warily, because the buzz under her skin has returned.

“You’ve been expected,” the boy says, tilting his head to reveal one tiny, pointed ear set with a dozen gold studs. He takes off at an easy amble towards the tree, jumping from root to root, expecting her to follow without even looking back.

 _There’s no going back the way I came_ , she thinks, and follows him to the base of the enormous tree.

The sensation under her skin begins to vibrate to an uncomfortable degree and she can barely resist scratching at her skin. There’s a sound in the air that’s strongly reminiscent of when she was a kid and would put her head to her father’s chest to hear his heart beat. She’d hear his steady breath in, then out; a deep body rumble that made her feel safe.

At the base of the tree Alice can’t help feeling two inches tall. The lowest branch is nearly a hundred feet above her, the grooves so deep in the bark she could nearly fit a hand in the space. The sound of breathing has grown louder now, rumbling over the itching feeling under her skin.

The boy touches the tree, saying something in a sing-song language Alice does not understand but feels deep within her. After a moment, the bark of the tree begins to shift, taking the shape of a tall, lithe woman. She steps from the tree and her bark skin melts away into a honey hew, hair so bright it’s like spun gold spills down her back in waves. Her face, both fey and ancient like the boys, is delicately boned, her eyes the color of the clearest sea. Just like the boy who stands at her side, her face is freckled with amber flecks that give her face the appearance of a fawn.

“The Bloody Queen has come to Tir Tairngire. Well met, Alice. I’m Plur na mBan, daughter of Oisin and the Sea Goddess, Niamh.”

Alice feels shock ripple through her. “Oisin…As in the poet in Irish Folklore?” Now she knows she’s dreaming.

“This is a dream, it’s true, but it is the only way I can reach you. Away from the other _Tuathe De_. Especially The Morrigna, who seek you. They know you’ve come and will try and lure you to their side. Even now, they’re searching the dream realm for a way in. I know what you seek and so do they.”

Alice wants to deny. Wants to shake herself awake, to hope that day might be breaking over her mortal form and Weeping’s call to rise will pull her from slumber, from this dream. But she looks at the boy, recalling the tales of Oisin she read as a little girl. Why would her dreams take her here, of all places, when they’d been haunted of late?

 _We must be on guard_ , Weeping had said. Was this a trick? The magic of the land seeping into her dreams and trying to seduce her? The land of pretty promises?

 _Just speak_ , a voice whispering in her mind, filling her head with visions of a bloody reign, the thrill of power.

“The Morrigna seek me? Why? I’m just Alice. I’ve no magical inclination, now power to speak of, what could I give them?”

“Just Alice, an apt name for you, but you see so little power in such a sentiment, my dear. Just Alice is everything you are and being everything you are is powerful. You’ve been touched by magic. Touched, and changed by its machinations in your life. That is all the crack any of us need to find our way in. For some who come to these shores, they find only paradise here, the other _Tuathe De_ content to let them exist in harmony. Others come and the _Tuathe De_ see only how they might serve their means. Might affect change. They see how fate ripples out through the known worlds and they seek to grow their influence. Something in your path has changed. Something within your heart. And it’s changed the fates of many.”

The nipping, tingling, uncomfortable vibration under her skin begins to multiply, growing in intensity until she cannot stand it. She claws at her skin, willing it to stop, scraping at her skin till it’s raw.

The boy touches her, alarmed. Plur comes to her side, a cool hand on her shoulder, another around her wrist, pulling Alice’s hand away from her skin.

“Do not shed blood here. It will bring them.”

“Can you make this stop?” She pleads, the sensation making her want to scream.

She gives Alice a sympathetic look, shaking her golden tresses. They move like waves in the sea, a trait likely given to her by Niamh. Her father is in her voice, beautiful and melodic, like a bard’s. “They call to you. They will call to your companions too. Those who are not strong, will succumb. You must not succumb Alice. Do not seek the blessing from the _Tuathe De_. They will only give it at great cost. Go west to my father. Find Oisin at the shore of Niamh and he will help you steal the blessing from the gods. Now, you must go. They draw near.”

“Why help me?” And was this really help, or a ploy to trick her? Was this creature any better than the others who wanted to control her? Who offered her dangerous promises?

“Because I see the threads of fate just as they do, and I do not want what they want. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. I fear I must keep my counsel Alice, the others will find their way in and I cannot let them know my reasons. Now, please, you must go before they find you. I can buy you this night and this night only.”

Alice can hear the foreign voices on the wind, riding in sharp and hot through her skull. They plead with her to relieve her ache, to only let them in, spill one red droplet of blood, and they will give her everything she’s ever wanted. She has only to _speak_ and make the offering and they will hear her and come.

The boy takes her hand and tugs on her, leading her away from the tree. Behind her, Plur na mBan dips her head and gives one final warning. “Beware the beautiful snare, Alice. Or you will never leave this place again.”

Then the boy pulls her into a seam of darkness at the edge of the cavern, returning her to the empty darkness of her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few helpful pronunciation guides if you are not familiar with Irish Folklore:
> 
> Tir Tairgire is pronounced Teir Tan-geer (this is the British pronunciation, there is an Irish one but I felt this one was easier to grasp, though if you are inclined, I suggest you check it out because their language is beautiful and complicated.)
> 
> Plur na mBan is pronounced Ploor-na-man.
> 
> Oisin is pronounced Uh-Sheen
> 
> Niamh is pronounced Nee-av
> 
> Mixing in some new lands and some new characters and starting to bring in threads I've subtly laid from the beginning. Hope you all enjoy! Next, we check in on Will and begin to see how Shoreline really has been impacted by this open portal on their sea.


	15. Beware the Crow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears! First, I apologize for taking so long to get the next chapter to you. Hopefully that will not happen again. Thank you for all your kind words and for being patient with me. <3
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to put some pronunciation tips at the front instead of the end since I'm using traditional Irish folklore as inspiration and I like to honor their language.
> 
> Badb - pronouced 'Biv' or 'Bayv' or 'Be-add' depending on dialect. 
> 
> Macha - pronounced 'Mock-uh' or 'Mocha' like the coffee.
> 
> Nemain - pronounced 'Nee-von' but another popular pronunciation is 'Nee-mon'.
> 
> As a little treat I've been working on my ITEIWAY soundtrack. Just a list of songs I've listened to (often on repeat, lol) while writing this story. If anyone is interested I'll put it in my notes on the next chapter. 
> 
> Happy reading! 
> 
> _“Dreams are but one doorway to this place. What you call a nightmare,” she cranes her head to look at Alice again, “I call the birth of a queen. What a fitting pair. The Bloody Queen and her Scarlet Knave.” A sickle smile cuts her face._

Will isn’t sure how many hours have passed since Alice left the cell but it feels impossibly long. A lifetime. Allistar, thankfully, doesn’t come back, leaving Will alone in the belly of an abandoned, magically warded warehouse at the edge of a forgotten town.

It’s hours more before he finally, against his better judgement, falls into a troubled sleep.

Then he’s back on the plain where Ana died, where Alice nearly saved Cyrus and killed a sorcerer. He watches the bolt of power fly from Jafar’s fingers, hears his desperate cry of warning. He remembers the feeling of hopelessness. He’s too far away to save her, too far away to save Cyrus. Can only watch as the genie disappears into the bottle just as Alice’s blade sinks into Jafar’s chest.

Up, up, up it slides, till Alice is kneeling below him.

Over Jafar’s slumping form, Will spots something that wasn’t there the first time. A lone figure, obscured by a low hanging mist. Time slows, Alice’s movements taking minutes where they’d only taken seconds, the look on Jafar’s face drawn out in agonizing detail.

Then the woman steps from obscurity into Will’s line of sight. Raven black hair, wild and wind-whipped, sticks out on her head like a fall of feathers. Her features are sharply avian but beautiful in an otherworldly way. She’s dressed in battle armor so black it’s unfathomable, an uncolor the likes of which mortal realms have never seen. The absence of all light, it contrasts against her milk white skin.

Will watches her approach Alice, who moves like cold honey. She reaches out one bone white hand, nails the same deep black of her armor. Her dark eyes lock on Alice with a feverlight that chills him. She’s nearly touched her when Will finds his voice again.

“Don’t touch her!” He doesn’t know why, but something tells him her touch is dangerous. Perhaps it’s in the way the inky blade sheathed at her hip seems to drink in the light around it. Or the way her hair reminds him of a crow’s feathers. Or the fact he cannot see veins beneath her pale, pale skin. It’s an ill omen that nestles in his stomach and he doesn’t want her to touch Alice.

Her eyes flick to him, delicate brows furrowing in a hint of curiosity. “How are you here?”

Her question puzzles him. “You’re in my dream, how are _you_ here?” Has he conjured her from the darkest reaches of his mind? A new terror to torment him?

She straightens, slipping around Jafar and Alice, trailing a long nailed finger along the genie’s bottle. The sound of scraped metal fills the silence. Then she’s looming over him, impossibly tall, as he holds the still warm body of Ana.

“She’s lovely.” The woman kneels, her feather soft hair tickling at his hands where they clench Ana. “It might have been her. So many ways the river of fate can snake away. Pity, Macha so wanted it to be her. Nemain was certain she’d become the White Queen. Alas, she is queen of nothing now.”

Will is no longer sure this is a dream at all. He can smell blood and wild grasses on her skin, the brush of her hair as real as Alice’s when she threw herself around him. Anger pulses through him at her casual dismissal of Ana. “Who are you?”

“How are you in this realm?” The sweet tone of her earlier words is gone, replaced with something cold, like steel. Her fingers stroke Ana’s golden hair dispassionately.

“You’re in my bloody dream. Who the hell are _you_?” He pulls Ana away from the woman’s touch, glancing at Alice, still poised under Jafar. A curtain of red has begun to fall on her. Seconds stretch into hours.

A shrill laugh splits the air, akin to the cry of a crow. It brings Will’s eye back to the woman. Her head is thrown back, mouth open as she bellows to the sky. She lowers her head after a moment, eyes dancing with power as she cocks her head to the side in a singularly bird-like movement. “You’ve strayed far from dreams I’m afraid.”

She stands, turning to look back at Alice and cold dread races through Will’s veins. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at her. With hunger. As though she might devour Alice whole.

“If you found your way to this in-between realm, then you are near. Here? There? It matters not. This is where everything changed and I came to see it for myself. To trace the pathways diverged from this moment so I might pluck the right strings. And to herald the death of someone powerful.” She turns back to Will, bending at the waist till her face is inches from his. A single finger traces the edge of his jawline, cold as ice. “You are woven into her fate, Will Scarlet. I see that now. A string to be strummed.”

She knew his name.

 _Of course she does, idiot, it’s your dream._ Only, the chide rings chillingly hollow.

“Congratulations, you’ve accomplished the impossible. Made my nightmares worse.” Will wants to wake up, but he can’t seem to stop the snarky retorts. She feels dangerous and still he can’t help himself.

_Piss off the strange lady in your dreams, good idea Will._

“Dreams are but one doorway to this place. What you call a nightmare,” she cranes her head to look at Alice again, “I call the birth of a queen. What a fitting pair. The Bloody Queen and her Scarlet Knave.” A sickle smile cuts her face. She raises, turning back to Alice and this time she does not turn back. She moves closer.

Will gently sets Ana aside, rushing towards the pale woman before she can touch Alice. He snatches her hand away just as it’s about to land on her shoulder.

“I said don’t touch her.” He goes stoically calm, his grip tight and firm but not painful, not yet.

She looks at his hand, wrapped around her thick wrist. Now that they’re standing side by side, he can see she stands nearly a head and a half taller than him but he doesn’t budge an inch, even as her scrutiny makes his skin crawl. Her scent is once again the salt tang of blood and poppies and unknown fields, light and almost imperceptible. Her lips curl in a half smile, half sneer.

She pushes harder, testing her strength against his. Will slips between her and Alice. He’s not exactly strong in a brawler’s sense of the word, but something about this place makes him feel powerful. He imagines his feet have roots and they’re sunk deep into the ground beneath him. Imagines he’s a wall dividing Alice from this creature.

She pushes again, brows drawn in growing agitation. For some reason she cannot break past him. She squawks at him, snapping her teeth like a beak. Finally, when she cannot push him away, she lets go. He almost expects her to reach for her weapon. And as soon as the thought enters his mind, he feels something in his palm. A glance down reveals a wicked looking sword in his right hand.

_You’re not the only one with steel in their spine._

Eyeing the blade, the woman backs up. She cocks her head, flicker fast, to the other side and for a moment Will thinks he sees the visage of a crow, eyes dark and unfathomable, imprinted over her. Then it’s gone and she’s a woman once again. She smirks. “What will you do, Will? Live here forever? Sooner or later, I will get through.”

“Not this time,” he says, not really understanding why he says it. This no longer feels like a dream but a battle ground and he’s certain, though he cannot explain why, there’s a war brewing and the first stand is taking place in front of him.

Mist begins to pool around her, enveloping her form till she’s a shadow in the fog. Only her voice remains. “Take measure of my words, Knave. The Morrigna will have their queen. My promise as Badb, my sisters and I will be free.”

Then she is gone and Will is no longer standing between her and Alice but is once again on the ground holding Ana. Too tired to force himself awake he watches the scene unfold, each act faster than the last as time catches back up to itself.

But he turns Badb’s name over in his mind, again and again. And he knows, even as the scent of her lingers and the sound of a crow’s call hovers in the air, she is not a figment of his imagination.

_What danger have we put ourselves in this time, Alice?_

Part of him wonders if it might be possible to reach Alice through the in-between realm. Warn her about Badb and her sisters.

_Dreams are but one doorway to this place._

Then the darkness pulls him from the nightmare into a restless but dreamless sleep.

 

***

 

When he wakes the woman’s name blurs into obscurity, almost lost to the hazy fragility of dreams the morning after. “Badb,” he says out loud, his voice solidifying it in his memory. It sticks this time, lodged like a burr in the folds of his mind.

In all his travels throughout Oz, the Enchanted Forest, Storybrooke, and Wonderland, he’s never heard of her or The Morrigna. But there’s a lot a thief in hiding fails to hear, even if he does have a keen ear for the details.

A young boy, the one from before, brings him food. He’s skittish and sets the tray at the base of the steps before scampering back up. This time Will doesn’t even say a word, waiting a full minute before rising from the seat to collect his meager gruel.

It sits like a lump in his stomach, the water tasting of metallic soil. He’s had better prison food.

He’s had worse.

“Who are you, Badb?” He says to the empty room, standing to stretch his legs for a bit. He considers trying the door at the top of the stairs. Surely Allistar wouldn’t give him that much freedom. Still, nothing ventured…

He tries the door handle. Stuck solid. _Locked_.

“Worth a try,” he mutters.

He opens every door in the room, scanning their contents in the hopes of finding something that might aid in an escape plan. He thinks of Cyrus’ bottle.

 _A_ theft _and escape plan._

But the warded storage rooms have long been cleared of anything helpful. Now they’re just empty cells meant for holding prisoners.

Will slumps back into the chair, mind churning with a plot. But he needs to be topside for it to work. By now Alice is likely far enough away she would not risk turning around to stop him.

 _I can give her the one thing she’s never had_ , he thinks.

Her freedom.

He’d held the final wish because he’d needed it to get to Alice when he thought she still might be on the side of the mountain. Then he’d held it because using it – though he’d wanted to – would have given Allistar exactly what he wanted and taken away their only bargaining chip.

Now, there is nothing holding him back. Allistar has nothing of value to threaten him with.

“Except this bloody room,” he whispers, disheartened. There’s only one option: he needs to get Allistar to bring him topside. “Then it’s all over.”

Will jumps up from the seat, energy renewed. He takes the stairs two at a time, and starts to pound on the door. “Oi! What’s a bloke gotta do to use the pisser?”

It’s not long before he hears the tell-tale sound of a key sliding into a lock on the other side of the door. A scraping turn, a click, and the door pulls open.

He’s greeted by a stone faced goon with a lazy eye. Will pulls back, trying to appear non-threatening.

 _Be chill, Will, be super chill._ “I need to go to the toilet.” The guy stares at him, devoid of any emotion. “Oi! You know, make water. Visit the porcelain throne?”

He turns to confer to someone Will cannot see through the narrow slit of the door. Their conversation is muffled too low for him hear but Will spots something dangling around the guard’s neck on a leather cord.

The key.

Just when he’s about to start in again, the door opens further and Will takes a step forward. “Thanks, mate-” Something hits him square in the chest, stopping him before he’s even put a single toe on the other side of the doorway. Will looks down.

A bucket.

Will takes it in his hands at the guard’s instance. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The goon sniffs, his thick slab of a nose rising and falling again. “Make water.”

Then the door slams shut, the lock clicking back in place.

Will scowls at the door for a moment before considering throwing the bucket at it. Then he looks at the bucket.

“Never toss away a potential tool,” he whispers.

Back in his chair, he sets the bucket out in front of him, mind churning and churning and churning. He needs to get the key. He needs to get topside. He needs to spend his final wish. He needs to learn more about The Morrigna.

He considers his options, playing through all potential scenarios and outcomes, mapping out every angle before he enacts his plan. Will knows that if he manages to do what he has planned, his life is likely forfeit.

_I can accept that._

Eventually, enough time passes he begins to grow weary. Instead of falling asleep in the chair he chooses a spot in the farthest corner of the room, pressing his back into the wall, bringing his knees to his chest. He thinks of Badb and her sisters. Of her promise to return, to make Alice their queen. Something very much like dread nestles deep in the pit of his stomach.

He’s not sure why, but he feels a sudden sense of urgency to return to that in-between place, like a call singing through his very blood. He’s not so tired as to need sleep, in fact, he’s gone days on little to no sleep when he ran with Robin Hood and his Merry Men, but something pricks at his nerve endings, making his hair stand on end; a sense of impending confrontation so sharp it cuts across his awareness like a knife.

_Dreams are but one way into this place._

“I’m comin’, Alice.” He floats into darkness.

 

***

 

At first there is only the hollow sound of dripping water and nothingness. Will feels disembodied, merely an essence of awareness cast adrift in an expanse of black so complete it’s unnatural. The deep, light consuming hue reminds him of Badb’s armor, the fall of her hair. He starts to panic but the water turns to the sound of waves, soothing and reassuring.

His heart beat slows, panic melting away.

The light does not come like a pinprick in the distance, emerging and growing as though at the end of the tunnel. Instead it comes gradually, like layers gently peeled away, till he’s surprised to realize he has a form again.

And he’s standing on a dark sand beach, under a cobalt sky, the sound of waves a soft lullaby.

The sea is calm and an aquamarine so bright it hurts his eyes to look at its glittering vastness. Water laps at his bare feet, pulling at the sand beneath him till he’s sinking ever so slightly.

Will doesn’t move, letting the water wash over his feet for a time until he becomes aware of someone standing beside him. His calm fractures apart as he realizes it’s Allistar.

The former captain stares out over the water, eyes glazed with longing. Will looks at the horizon but spies nothing of note.

What draws his attention?

 _And_ , he thinks, _is this a dream_? Or the in-between? How would one know when they’ve crossed over from dream to somewhere else?

“It’d help if there were a bloody door or something,” he mutters.

The sound of his voice, even as soft as it is, draws Allistar’s gaze. The fog masking their usual sharp madness lifts, returning them to their fever pitch brightness.

“Knave, now I’m to be tormented by you? Does she test me?” Allistar turns back to the sea, taking a halting step forward into the waves, which have started to grow in size. “Why do you forsake me? I’ve done as you asked! Why will you not appear?”

Will looks around, wondering who Allistar is speaking of, when the man grabs his clothes at his collar bone, pulling him face to face with him.

“Easy, mate-”

“I come and still, she will not show herself. You arrived and she stopped coming. Where is she?” Allistar sounds even further in the grip of madness, eyes so bright they’re nearly stars set in deep pockets of darkened skin.

How has Will not noticed it before? The circles rimming Allistar’s frenzied eyes. When was the last time he’s had a decent night’s sleep?

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Will grips Allistar’s hand, even as he knows he’s no match for brawn again the guy. But as their flesh connects, Allistar pulls back at the same moment Will imagines a bolt of electricity zipping through his skin. The former captain looks stunned, staring down at his hand where a dark singe mark mars the pale skin.

Fury replaces the shock, contorting Allistar’s face into something monstrous. He charges but Will imagines there is more distance between them and suddenly the entire expanse of the beach lies separates them, Allistar nothing more than a tiny dot on the horizon.

“What-”

Will has no time to ponder at the power he possesses here because Allistar appears before him in a blink, fist closing around his throat.

The pressure brings tendrils of darkness to the edges of his vision, his breath catching at the choke point. He’s not sure if one can die in this place but he doesn’t want to find out. Will sweeps a foot out like he’s seen Alice do a dozen times.

The motion catches Allistar off guard, crumbling him to the sand.

_More distance._

Will materializes down the length of the beach; it doesn’t seem to end.

A roar rips through the air, then Allistar is there, a fist flying through the air at him. Will blinks and stands behind him.

 _Could get used to this_ , he thinks, feeling powerful. And it’s a heady sensation, having spent so many weeks and months feeling helpless, caught in the current of fate.

He flexes his hands, picturing them like stone, solid and unbreakable. They grow heavy, stiff with strength. Will clenches his right hand into a fist…and swings.

The strike sends Allistar flying forward, face planting into the sand. Over his prone form Will smiles but it lacks humor. It’s the cold smile of satisfaction.

“That’s for Alice,” he whispers.

Something in the distance catches his eye. A dark blot wavering in the sunlight like a mirage. Beneath him, Allistar groans but remains slumped on the ground. Finally, whatever makes its way to them begins to take shape.

_Badb._

Her armor pulls at the light, streaking it along every edge of her body. She tosses her mane of hair back and forth, rippling the air around her with tendrils of stretched light. That same sickle smile cuts across her face, her eyes dancing with some unknown delight.

Will’s chest heaves from the shot adrenaline coursing through his body. Panic wants in but he pushes it from his mind. After all, he’d hoped to meet this being again, if only to better understand what threat looms over him and Alice.

_Will fate ever let us live in peace?_

She stops in front of Allistar, giving the felled man a brief glance. Then her crow black eyes are back on him, the smile curling wider. Impossibly wide. “Do not stop on my account. Does your very blood not sing with the act? Can you not feel the power coursing through your veins? Surely you wish to finish what you’ve started. Make. Him. Pay.”

Her words chill Will such that he lowers his hands, the earlier joy at landing a blow gone.

Badb crouches to run her fingers through Allistar’s hair. He doesn’t seem to be aware she’s even there.

“How can I,” he looks at his hands, “do what I do here?”

Maybe he’s been wrong and this really is nothing more than a dream. A product and manifestation of every bizarre, strange, horrifying, and terrible thing he’s endured in his short life. Being this far from Alice must be conjuring problems where, perhaps, there were none to be found.

_If you go looking for darkness…_

He needs to know she’s safe. _I can rest if I could just set her free._

“Everything is possible in this place, with the right blood. There is magic in your lineage. And you’ve touched its well when you were a genie. Yes, I know about that now. And love,” she smirks. “Love is a most powerful kind of magic. Do you not feel that power, Scarlet Knave? Does it not tempt you? To hold sway over the fate of men who’ve wronged you? Wronged _her_? You might serve your queen, if you would only let me reach her. I could place you at her feet, and she will take you into her keeping. Yours could be a place of privilege in the coming kingdom.” She stands, locking her gaze on the sea.

He tries to deny the way such power makes him feel. He’s relied on his wiles for so long that this physical strength, this ability to conjure, has his head swimming. His body betrays him, vibrating with bliss at all the possibilities.

Badb looks back at him. “You cannot cross this sea from where you are. You will only ever know a taste of your true potential until you do.”

“And him?” Will’s no fool, though The Queen of Hearts had thought to teach him his place by calling him Knave. “What did you promise Allistar?”

She waves a hand lazily through the air. “I once told him that his fate would be determined on a shore far from his home.” She turns back to look down at Allistar, who seems frozen in unawareness. Her lips curl up into a sharp grin that reveals her bright teeth. She cocks her head to the side, ever the crow in her movements. “I promised that he would know power on that shore with the fall of a sorcerer and the arrival of an old enemy.”

Will sucks in a breath. “Me.” And Alice, who’d slayed a sorcerer. “You promised him power if he captured us?”

Now her smile is for him, light stretching taffy-thin at the edge of her form. “I told him he’d know power on the shore, I never said whose power it would be.”

“You’re the reason he’s gone mad…”

She laughs, low and throaty. “No, no. Madness is the gift of my sister, Nemain. Though it wasn’t far to go, the man was half crazed when he came to us.”

Will stumbles back further, staring in disbelief at Allistar, then back at Badb. The sea mirrors his turmoil, growing agitated and rough. The waves reach him, even as far back as he stands on the dark shore. Her eyes flicker towards the darkening sky. A storm brews on the horizon.

For a moment, Will almost believes she looks concerned. Her brows, fine and manicured, pinch inward, the only sign on her immaculate face that something is amiss. She looks back at him, face once again a mask of pale stone.

“There is only so much you can do on this side of the shore, Will. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to cross the sea.”

Then she’s gone in a flutter of wings, pulling the light after her. Only a crow remains, flying into the stormy sky till it’s lost to distance his eyes cannot fathom.

Allistar groans anew, shaking as though from a stupor. Then he seems to remember what landed him in the sand and he turns onto his back, eyes blazing with fury up at Will. Frantically, he looks around before righting himself with only a thought. The sea crashes against the shore, lightning arcing across the sky. Thunder follows. Allistar continues his crazed search for Badb.

“Badb? Are you there?” He sounds fearful, on the verge of tears.

Will feels a flash of pity for him. The poor bastard doesn’t even know she’s come and gone again without so much as a hello for him. The sea begins to calm, settling with Will’s mood. But then, he remembers the pain on Alice’s face, her scream when Allistar plunged the knife deep and twisted, the blood as Weeping pulled it free.

Instead, Will finds himself saying, “She came Allistar. But not for you.”

He’s never been a particularly cruel person, never had it in him to needlessly hurt even though Ana had inspired a coldness in his demeanor with regards to her. But that was to protect himself from the hurt she’d caused. In this? He is shocked to find he relishes the look of dumbfounded disbelief on Allistar’s face.

 _Careful, Knave_ , Alice whispers in his head. Once the heart turns to cruelty, it’s a long road back.

He pulls back from Allistar, turning away from the conflicted emotions warring across the man’s face.

_There will come a point of no return, Will. See that you’re not standing on the wrong side of that moment._

He isn’t sure where that second voice comes from, only that it isn’t within him. It does not sound like Alice, or even Ana. It’s different, feminine and distant, and for a moment Will thinks he spies a tree in his peripheral, large and ancient. But when he turns, the beach is clear.

Even Allistar is gone.

By now, the sea has fallen completely still, the sky brightening into a deep azure. Will feels a strange sense of peaceful, but he’s not fooled by the silence and the calm.

_If you want to stop me, you’ll have to cross the sea._

A challenge. What lay on the other side of the ocean? Was that where the Morrigna were? If he could reach them, could he save Alice from them? What did they want with her? His mind reals with all the questions he cannot answer.

“Alice,” he says, letting it fall from his lips over the edge of the water. He hopes the sea will carry it to her, where ever she might be.

Just as he turns away a gentle wave touches his feet.

“Will…”

He spins around again, heart racing. It’d been Alice’s voice.

He rushes towards the water till he’s knee deep. “Alice!” He scans the horizon, searching for her, willing her to appear like a conjuring. But there is only the ocean and him. He cannot get to her.

“Not here,” he realizes, understanding then what Badb means. Will tries to picture himself on the other side of the ocean but does not move.

Of course it wouldn’t be that simple.

He needs a boat! One appears on the shore the second the thought enters his mind. He doesn’t know the first thing about sailing but he doesn’t care. And besides, the sea seems to respond to his own emotions. If he remains calm, so too till the ocean.

The rough hewn vessel bobs in the water, beckoning him.

He approaches, raising a foot to step inside, when the world tilts on its axis and he tumbles through darkness, ripped away from the in-between place and the boat waiting to carry him towards Alice.

Violently he becomes aware of someone shaking him. His eyes shoot open – he’s back in the spelled cellar – and finds himself face to face with Allistar.


	16. Beguile in the Emerald Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This doesn’t look good,” the sorcerer adds._
> 
> _“We don’t know they mean us any harm,” Cyrus yells over the wind._
> 
> _“Riders!” shouts Lyledee._
> 
> _The dots are now large enough that Alice can make out their forms. Riders in dark armor sit atop massive crow-like birds. They’re nearly the same size as the gryphons. Windwing sends a warning screech towards them. They respond with a threatening caw._
> 
> _“They come for us,” Silvertail says._

She hears her name in the cresting sigh of a wave below them. It has the timbre of Will’s voice, caressing her with longing.

“Will,” she whispers, the words sweet and sad on her lips.

_Tis only the sea singing to you. Will is far away. Waiting for you to return._

The waves call her name again and this time her heart hurts, knowing it must only be a trick of the wind and the magic of this place. She leans into Windwing’s neck and away from the comforting warmth of Cyrus at her back. He doesn’t try to close the distance and part of her is grateful even as old feelings betray her.

_Part of you will always love Cyrus._

And she feels like crying as she realizes this. But the act feels too raw in that moment, will invite questions she can’t answer right now, so she swallows down the sting and lets it sour in her belly instead.

The day is relatively calm after a night of restless sleep. Alice isn’t the only one who’d been visited by a _Tuathe De_ in the place between dreams. When Alice told Weeping that morning of her encounter with Plur, the aged woman nodded in understanding.

“I, too, was visited by Plur, daughter of Oisin. She bade me keep a keen eye on my dreams. Though she could not give me more information than that.”

“Plur warned me against seeking the other _Tuathe De_. To seek Oisin at the Niamh Sea instead. ”Alice added.

At the delicate goddess’ name, Cyrus had grown thoughtful, casting his eyes down and away from Alice. Now he holds her lightly but with a warm pressure that keeps reminding Alice of their connection, strained as it’s been since their reunion.

_I’ve hardly given him the kind of reunion he and I dreamed of once upon a time_ , she thinks glumly. And it isn’t fair, but she won’t be false to him. She won’t pretend. In that, Alice will not allow her guilt to sway her. Cyrus deserves only honesty from her and if she cannot utter the words just yet, neither will she act as though no time has passed between them, that they are not altered by the experiences that fissured them from each other.

Her once wonder-filled genie is sullen and quiet at her back, allowing some distance between her and him that feels miles wide, their only connection through his hand at her waist.

_I’m so sorry, Cyrus._ Wasn’t true love supposed to overcome anything?

They’d agreed, after a conference with Aayushmaan and Allistar’s goons (which Alice has begrudgingly tried to associate with their given names: Lyledee, a distant family connection to the Tweedles, and Corbin, whose family could trace their lineage all the way back to Brightshore’s early days) to head for Oisin instead of Weeping’s original destination.

“All my father would tell me of the _Tuathe D_ e is that they call the Horned Mountain home.”  She’d pointed to the far eastern horizon where, in the haze of distance, Alice could just make out the two pronged peaks of a purple mountain range. “And to beware their beguile.”

Aayushmaan had been the most reluctant of their group, eyeing the horned peaks with narrow and thoughtful eyes. He’d made no mention of who might have visited him in his dreams but he’d agreed all the same. After a time.

Alice spies Aayushmaan looking over his shoulder a time or two, back towards the Horned Mountain growing ever smaller, and wonders what is going through the sorcerer’s mind.

_Who visited him? Plur?_ But the sorcerer had made no mention of Plur when Weeping did. And Lyledee and Corbin had readily spoken about their encounter with the strange _Tuathe De_. Why not share his own experience?

But neither had Cyrus mentioned being visited in his dreams and they’d been too pressed for time to press the matter. _Like father, like son._

Alice feels the sting of such secrets, even as she knows she has no right to feel as she does.

_Curiosity killed the cat, Alice…_

Still, she cannot stop herself. Turning her head so he might hear her over the rush of wind, she asks, “What did Plur say to you in your dream, Cyrus?”

“She said nothing.” His tone, while clipped, is soft. He’s not trying to be harsh, only seems to wish they would talk of something else.

“She said nothing at all? Not even to give warning?” she pushes. Even for as little as she knows of Oisin’s daughter, this seems strange to Alice, especially given the similar warnings and protections she’d afforded Weeping and Allistar’s men.

“She did not say anything because,” he pauses, struggling with how much to reveal. Finally he says, “She was not the one who visited me.”

A spike of concern races through Alice’s veins. “Who then?” And were they friend or foe?

She feels the loss of warmth at her side where his right arm previously rested. She cranes her neck and sees him holding something in his hand. But he catches her watching him and stuffs it into his vest before she can determine what it is.

“I do not know,” he says, sliding his arm back around her waist.

Alice feels a black ball of tar nestle in her heart at something in his voice she’s never heard before…a lie.

 

***

 

Some time later, while the gryphons rest along the sandy beach for a spell and the others let the honey gold sun sink into their skin, Aayushmaan approaches Alice. He glances between her and Cyrus, who’s remained close – _but not too close,_ she note _s_ – since they landed. The genie gives him a long look that lacks everything but cold scrutiny. Then he rises, dusts the white sand from his dark pants, and wanders away.

The sorcerer watches him leave, seemingly torn between wanting to go after his son and whatever it is that has brought him to speak with Alice.

“He still needs time,” she says, eyes following Cyrus’s back as he settles down a dozen feet away from them, looking out over the ocean. It quietly laps at the sand, pulling it into flat planes perfect for leaving footprints, which the gryphons had done before settling in for a quick nap. The water has already pulled them into nothingness, returning that soft surface into a blank slate once again.

Alice remembers a time she and Cyrus had walked along a similar beach, a world away, as the sun set orange and velvet purple over the water. They’d linked fingers and spoke of all the places they wanted to see, together.

“He is not the only one who needs time,” the sorcerer says, pulling her from the dark trail of her thoughts.

Alice looks up at him, a feeling of disorientation hitting her. For a moment – a brief and frightening moment – she feels a surge of pure anger for the sorcerer rise in her throat. Had he been there, would Cyrus have been cursed to his life as a genie? Would Amara have felt the desperation she had? Would she still have sought dark magics and everlasting life, dooming her sons to imprisonment? Sons now scattered to the corners of Wonderland, separated by years and magic? Even now, she’s had little time to consider what searching for Cyrus’ brothers will entail and this man dares to speak of needing time? To hint ever so subtly at the change in her heart? She was there when Cyrus had been nothing but another pawn of luck happened upon by the greedy, the wishful, and the cruel. Those who never gave a second thought to _his_ deepest wish…to be free.  
  
She wants to grow claws and tear Aayushmaan’s throat out…

Something pricks her skin and she glances down, pain vibrating through her palm. Her pale pink nails, dirty from days without a proper clean, have narrowed and grown into little claws. They’re imbedded in her skin deep enough they almost draw blood. Panic races through her as Plur’s words echo through her head.  
  
_Do not spill blood…_

She isn’t sure if Plur had meant only to refrain from spilling blood in the strange dream realm or anywhere in this world, so she slowly unclenches her first, checking for blood as subtly as she can. It throbs where her bandage hides Allistar’s knife wound.

The earlier flash of anger simmers into a cold pit of concern. Weeping’s warning about the magic in this place chills her till she nearly shivers.

Aayushmaan’s brows narrow ever so slightly, noticing the change in her. He makes no remark, settling down to sit across from her, and inclines his head to the side.

“Does he know?”

She doesn’t need clarification. “Could you have told Amara that your heart was…” she swallows over the lump in her throat, glancing at Cyrus over the sorcerer’s shoulder, “divided?” And just like that, her sudden transformation is forgotten, as though the very air around her washes over the memory and sweeps it clean, footprints lost to the sea.  
  
There will come a time, though it will be much later, she will think back and wonder why she hadn’t been more concerned about the sudden ability to grow tiny claws when she’s never had a magical bone in her body. But, by then, it will be too late to alter course.

“My heart has never been divided,” Aayushmaan says quietly.

Alice snaps her gaze back to him. “You might never have loved another but if your tale is true then I gather your heart was servant of two masters. And you lost Amara when you chose the wrong one.”

_Where had that come from?_ she wonders. It was true she’d not had much reason to trust the sorcerer but neither did she believe the love he felt for Amara as anything but true. But he’s never told her why happened between him and Amara, what drove them apart, she’s only guessed at what caused the fissure. The look on his face tells her she’s not far from the truth.

Her remark, scathing and hot, scalds him. She expects him to lash out at her, try to wound her in some way, but his shoulders dip a fraction of an inch.

“You are not wrong. And I must live with that truth till I die.” Sorrow brims in his eyes as unshed tears. He holds them back, but just barely, and Alice feels a knife cut across her heart. Suddenly he’s not a powerful and dangerous sorcerer but a man who loved a woman he’d spent most of his adult life searching for only to discover she was dead.

_What has gotten into you, Alice? You’ve never been so cruel._

Shame heats her cheeks and she reaches out a hand to clasp his, remembering the despairing first weeks in Bethlem when she’d believed Cyrus dead.

She considers asking him about the rest of the story, but it feels wrong to dig into that wound at this moment, not when she remembers the feeling on him ripping memories from her mind like weeds from the ground. Instead, around the lump in her throat, she says, “We must all live with regrets. But do not let his cold shoulder dismiss you. He will come around and, trust me, you will not want to miss out on knowing that man.” She nods to Cyrus and the sorcerer looks over his shoulder at him.

“I see her face in him and it’s like a piece of her still lingers in this world.”

“A piece of her will always exist within him. We carry those we love with us. Forever.” A chip of ice over her heart breaks off as she says the words. She feels warmth infuse her, looking as she does now, in Cyrus’ direction.

It doesn’t feel like such a thorn, knowing some part of her will be tied to him forever. And she means it when she tells Aayushmaan he won’t want to miss out on knowing Cyrus. Even for all the ways her own heart has changed, she does not regret her time with Cyrus. Doesn’t regret knowing him.

_And I hope I know him for many more years to come, whatever may be._

“Alice.” Aayushmaan’s voice grows serious, dropping low. She meets his gaze and the dangerously powerful sorcerer is back. “I was not visited by Plur in my dreams. This, I’m sure, you know. You are far too clever for your own good.”

“I think I’m the appropriate amount of clever,” she counters, trying to remain light even as she feels the doom lingering at the edge of his tongue. Even as she suspects what he’s about to say.

“I found myself in the midst of a battle on a field of mushroom trees and glowing stone,” he continues. “All around me was chaos. I could hear the clash of sword and shield, hear the frantic casting of magic, taste a copper tang on the air, and see the frenzied fever of men in the grip of blood lust. Then a woman approached me. She stepped between the sweeping arcs of weapons and volley of arrows unscathed. A madness gleamed in her eyes, a wicked light I am not ashamed to admit sent a spike of fear through me. She called herself Nemain.”

“Nee-von?” Alice says, drawing out the pronunciation. Her heart stutters a beat but were she asked why there would be nothing to the feeling she could articulate. Footprints lost to the sea. “Did she speak to you?”

Aayushmaan nods, still solemn and serious. “She told me that only death awaited me on the path to the ocean.”

Alice furrows her brow. “The ocean?”

The sorcerer shifts on the sand, glancing towards the sea, which sits calm and beautifully serene, bewitching and twinkling as though a thousand dancing points of sunlight bob on the gentle current. “I thought she said ocean. But it wasn’t until after you told us of Plur and her suggestion, to go to her father, I realized what she’d actually said. To _Oisin_.”

Shock ripples through her. “Was she _Tuathe De_?”

He remains silent, eyes locked on hers.

“The Morrigna?” she swallows a lump in her throat, unsure why she’s so afraid. But she remembers the chase in the dark, the feeling of playing prey to their hunt. And she remembers Plur words. _Her warning._

He nods. “One of three, she said. Sisters.”

The Morrigna were sisters?

“Did she say anything else?” She shudders to remember their chant, their call for her to spill blood. The sudden need to fight and rip and shred the buzzing out from under her skin. The way it would have nearly consumed her had Plur not been there to stop her.

He hesitates. Only for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptible. But Alice has grown adept at reading subtlety. She marks it though, choosing not to press him when he says, “No.

The son lies, the father lies.

Alice tries to pretend it doesn’t sting. Aayushmaan doesn’t owe her any loyalty. But the nettle cannot help but what it is, it pricks regardless.

“Do you think she meant _your_ death?” Alice swallows down the fire in her throat, focusing on the throb in her palm.

“I cannot guess. Were it not laced with the hint of prophecy I would think she meant me. But I’ve heard the language of the seer many times in my life and they are clever with how they word things. They enjoy the mystique. I do not know whose death awaits me but it is someone’s and she wants me to believe it might be my own.”

_But it could be me. Or Cyrus._

Her gaze flicks to the genie then back to the sorcerer. They share a moment of understanding.

“What do you want to do?” she asks slowly. This mission will decay quickly into chaos if she has to fight a sorcerer _and_ the power of the _Tuathe De_. Would he betray them all to save his son? Himself? Better to know now if he plans to rebel against their current plans.

He knows her train of thought, eyeing her coolly. But he’s not foolish enough to test the power of this place. Not after Weeping’s warning. And likely, he feels the land’s strange current of magic. As though one must guard their own thoughts, lest every waking thought manifest before them.

“We stay the course for now. I might take her warning to heart, but neither do I wish to meet this creature face to face. But keep a keen eye, Alice. I’ve lost Amara, I will not lose what remains of her in this world.” Now it’s his turn to glance at Cyrus and she does not mistake the threat in his tone.

 

***

 

They’re flying low over an emerald forest – quiet literally a forest made of trees with emeralds for leaves Alice is surprised to realize – when Weeping brings Cragmaw up beside her. The wind roars in their ears so Weeping has to shout at her.

“To the north!” She points, pulling Alice and Cyrus’ gaze.

There are several black dots along the horizon, moving towards them.

“Birds?” Cyrus asks.

Weeping shrugs. “I can’t be certain. But they’re gaining fast and they’re headed straight for us.”

Alice scans the sky again, noting the speed with which the dark marks are growing in size. A buzz begins to vibrate under her skin. “We need cover.”

“You think we’re in danger?” Cyrus asks, turning back to face her. “Could just be a flock of indiginous birds.”

Before she can answer a cry splits the air. It’s similar to a crow’s, only a hundred fold stronger, sending a spear of fear through Alice even as it’s hauntingly beautiful. Weeping shares a look with her.

“I’ll take your lead Alice. It’s why I brought you,” Weeping says.

Now Aayushmaan and the others pull in line with them.

“This doesn’t look good,” the sorcerer adds.

“We don’t know they mean us any harm,” Cyrus yells over the wind.

“Riders!” shouts Lyledee.

The dots are now large enough that Alice can make out their forms. Riders in dark armor sit atop massive crow-like birds. They’re nearly the same size as the gryphons. Windwing sends a warning screech towards them. They respond with a threatening caw.

“They come for us,” Silvertail says.

“Are you certain? Can you understand them?” Cyrus doesn’t seem to want to believe they mean them any harm. Alice doesn’t have time to consider why he is so strongly out of tune with the danger they all seem to feel.

“Gryphons speak all language,” Cragmaw says, voice so low the wind nearly pulls it away from their ears.

“I’d rather play it safe. Into the trees. Just until they pass.” _If they pass._ Alice urges Windwing down lower. He obliges with little prompting, darting between beautiful spines of gleaming emerald till they land on the forest floor below.

Underfoot, pine needle shaped emeralds snap and crackle. The air is still down here. _Too still._ There is no bird calls or wildlife rustling. And what, really, could live in a forest made entirely of gemstones? Up close, Alice can make out the glassy brown texture of the tree trunks. They’re polished Tiger’s Eye, streaked with golden lines that shimmer and shift as Windwing steps aside to let the others land.

“What now?” Weeping asks as Cragmaw brings her down last.

Alice looks at the broken gems under Windwing’s feet. “Does the ground hurt?” This plan won’t go far if the gryphons cannot stand walking over gem shards.

Windwing prances back and forth, stomping the ground with each bounce. Finally he stops and shakes his head. “I feel the prick of their ends but they cannot pierce the pads of my feet.”

“Then we continue west. As fast as we safely can. Once we’re sure they’ve flown by we can take to the sky again.”

They scan the forest over her shoulder. She notes their reactions, each one unique and wholly in line with what she knows of their personalities, but all with the same sense of _strange_ she herself feels in the full stillness of the forest.

“What a peculiar place,” Aayushmaan murmurs.

“Curious,” Weeping notes, face growing slack in awe.

Lyledee and Corbin exchange nervous glances. They’ve seen little outside Shoreline and these bizarre new locations must be unsettling.

Under the surface of her own unease though, Alice feels the tug of wonder. There is a quiet beauty here, an undisturbed calm that is slowly seeping into her bones. She wants to just sit under the bright green gems overhead and listen to the stillness. To have a true moment of silence.

The others seem just as inclined despite their wary looks into the dense woods. No one makes a move to head westward; the gryphons sway on their feet.

_Stay._

Alice finds herself nodding her head. _Yes, just for a moment._

Her back slumps ever so slightly against Cyrus. His own grip grows lax at her waist, slipping till his hands are resting on either side of her hips. Windwing’s head dips periodically as though he wants to fall asleep.

_You’re safe here. Rest, be at peace._

Alice turns her head lethargically to the side, noticing for the first time tiny flowers poking like poppies through the fallen emerald shards. They’re also made of gems, glittering in the dappled light; blue agates, pink quartz, citrine, sapphires, and deep rubies.

_How pretty_ , she thinks, wanting to step down off Windwing and see if they smell like regular flowers. Despite the lack of sound, there is a pleasant scent to the air around them. One of earth and sea-salt tang. This close to the ocean she is surprised the crash of waves doesn’t penetrate this stillness.

Perhaps if she could just rest for a moment-

_Alice…_

The voice is faint, as though coming to her from across a great distance. But it’s not her name that pulls to her attention so sharply, it’s the familiarity of the voice.

Will.

_I hear his voice everywhere now_ , she thinks, turning back to the flowers. I _t’s nothing but the wind_. Even as she thinks this, it doesn’t dawn on her…there is no wind here. Footprints lost to the sea.

_Alice!_

Her head snaps up, pulled towards the sound as though a cord between her and it pulls taut. Her heart races, alarm casting off the sluggish stupor. She casts her eyes about the forest quickly, looking – in part – for Will and whatever danger she’s starting to feel raise the hairs on her skin.

The stillness starts to seep back into her bones. _Stay, sleep, rest._

_No._ She tries to shake the sensation. There is something they are supposed to be doing. Some urgency in their journey that she can’t quite recall at the moment.

_Alice! You need to flee! The Morrigna’s followers are coming!_ Will again, distant but insistent.

At that moment something unseen shoves Alice from Windwing’s back. She lands on the ground, shattering emeralds under her weight. The shock of the fall chases the last of the haze from her mind. Dark shapes pass over the canopy, drawing her attention. Remembering the approaching riders on massive crows, she shoots to her feet.

“Weeping! Aayushmaan! Snap out of it!” She leaps onto Windwing’s back, tugging on his nape as lightly as she can but with a firm hand till he responds to her. Whatever force might have pushed her out of her trance slips to the back of her mind in place of the immediate danger.

Weeping Turtle shakes her head first, eyes locking on to Alice’s, then they slide up till they spy the riders, now fully overhead, blotting out the sunlight and confirming their suspiscion they are the riders’ target.

“Silvertail, Lightstreak! With me!” Weeping urges Cragmaw towards the west. The gryphons hesitate for a moment, their riders lost in the haze of whatever magic fills these woods. Weeping circles back and slams Cragmaw into them, shaking them finally from their daze. They right themselves quickly, suddenly alert and ready to take commands.

“With me!” Weeping barks again and this time they follow. Alice follows close behind, Cyrus’ tightening grip the only sign he’s free of the forest’s alluring magic.

The gryphons break into a run just as the riders spear through the tree canopy. A caw – then another, then a whole company of them – rents the air, filling the silent forest with too much sound. Alice dares a glance back, ears ringing with the unearthly cry.

Some of the crows are on the ground, racing fleet-footedly towards them. Those with smaller wing spans stay aloft, soaring closer than their earth bound companions. One makes it a few feet away from Alice but has to swerve suddenly when the gryphon takes a sharp turn to avoid a massive emerald tree.

“They’re here!” she shouts to the front of the line.

Weeping Turtle cranes her neck, looking back. Wide eyes are the only sign she is concerned. The rest of her face falls into grim determination. She leans forward and whispers to Cragmaw. They begin to weave in and out of the trees instead of making a straight line. The others follow suite.

“Spread out!” Weeping shouts back at Alice. “Do not give them an easy target!”

At her back, the caw of a crow pulls Alice’s attention. They’re close now. So close she can nearly feel the wind of their wing beats, the heat of their breath, the snap of their beaks. The riders lack definition, garbed from head to toe in strange, deep black armor. It’s so dark it makes the air around them dim as though the armor is pulling on the very light from the sky.

Windwing pulls alongside Lightstreak and the sorcerer, who gives her a long look. Alice feels her lips pull into a thin line, knowing already what he’s thinking.

_The Morrigna._

Lightstreak pulls Aayushmaan away from Alice as a crow tries to dive into them. Its wing catches one of the unyielding tree limbs and spins out of control. The gryphon squawks over her shoulder before shooting forward with a renewed burst of energy.

“Alice!” Cyrus shouts at her back. She cranes her neck to see what he’s calling her attention to at the same time he swings a fist. It connects with the beak of a crow that’s flown too close for comfort. Stunned, it falls back, the rider trying desperately to steady their haphazardly careening.

Damn Allistar for leaving them without much in the way of weapons. Lyledee and Corbin are the only ones besides her with a something deadly.

Well, and the sorcerer.

He’s already throwing spears of lightning back at the pursuers. One lands a blow, sending the crow plummeting to the ground. The rider falls head first into the forest floor, sending up a spray of emerald into the air. Rolling into the fall, the rider is up and sprinting moments later, leaving the crow behind.

Another runs up alongside him and its rider scoops him up till they’re sitting two astride the crow.

_They’re certainly well trained_ , she observes.

“Cyrus,” she says, bringing one leg up and over till she’s sitting side saddle on Windwing’s back. Cyrus gives her a questioning look. “Do the same but opposite of me, then scoot forward as much as you can!”

He follows her lead, shifting his leg up and over till he’s facing the opposite direction of her then he shifts till his back is pressing against hers.

“When I say go, bring you left leg up towards the front and face forward. I’ll take the rear.”

He shouts his agreement. She pulls her left leg up, trying to keep from falling as Windwing bounds over the uneven ground. Each time he darts around a tree the sharp motion nearly throws her. But Cyrus links an arm through hers, keeping her stride more than once with a stiff pull in the opposite direction.

“Go!” she says, once her foot is in the proper position. Cyrus spins with a fighter’s fluid grace, bringing his leg up and over so he’s now at the front and she’s at the back, facing towards the crows and their riders. She pulls her dagger from the sheath at her wrist.

For a moment, her heart swells with emotion, thankful that Cyrus hadn’t tried to persuade her from taking charge of their protection. He’s never been one to stop her when it comes to defending herself, or him, from enemies. He trusts her. And she trust him to keep them heading west. It feels good, to find a moment of synchronicity with him.

Another arc of crackling power zips by, aiming for a crow half a dozen feet from the back of the uneven, scattered line of gryphons. The crow ducks at the last moment, quicker than Alice has ever seen anything react, and misses being struck by Aayushmaan’s magic.

Above, a crow swoops down upon Alice, squawking so loud it makes her want to wince, but she dares not give them the in her action would create. Fast as she can she strikes upward, spearing the dagger towards the crow’s neck.

She knows it’s not going to land but it does have the effect she is going for; the crow pulls back, putting distance between them again.

To her right, another tries to side swipe them. It connects before she can put the knife in her other hand and swing it. The blow shoves Windwing off balance into a tree. Cyrus cries out as the trunk hits their sides. Alice winces at the pain but her eyes are on the gauntlet reaching for her. One of the riders is making a grab for her.

“Windwing!” Alice calls. Her knife is pinned in the hand up against the tree. Desperately, she tries to swat the rider away. When her hand connects with the black armor she screams. Pulling away she sees an angry red welt as though contact with the armor has burned her.

The gryphon finally rights himself and starts to run when Alice has the strange sensation of being pulled upwards. While she’s been focused on the armored rider to her right another has flown low, the crow nipping at collar of Will’s jacket, pulling her into the sky.

“Cyrus!” Her legs kick out wildly. Cyrus tries to grab her ankle but the rider whose gauntlet burned Alice’s skin is already directing his mount to slam into Windwing again, pulling Cyrus’ hand out of reach.

Reacting on pure instinct she brings her knife up and stabs into the crow’s beak. It glances off as though against some kind of scale. She tries again but the knife cannot penetrate the beak. It’s hard as bone and just as unyielding.

When she’s a few feet into the air she stops short, pulled on by a force below. It knocks the air from her lungs in a whoosh, making her grunt and gulp in a hurried breath. She looks down but cannot see what holds her fast. There’s nothing there. The crow struggles against the invisible force, beating its wings furiously.

_What the…_

“Cyrus!” she shouts again, flailing her arms over her head. If she cannot cut into the crow, perhaps she can stun it with a well-aimed blow. But the crow’s wings beat down and block her. Another time the booted foot of the crow’s rider kicks at her hands, burning her again.

The force holding her feet pulls down sharply and she hears something rip. The collar pulls free of the beak and Alice plummets towards the forest floor.

She braces for impact-

-only to stop short, held mid-air by the same force that likely tore her free of the crow’s beak. She floats for a moment, heart racing. It feels as though there is a hand at her back, warm and solid. Another up around her knee as though an arm is just under her legs, holding her up.

The touch feels safe, protective. It lowers her slowly, setting her down as gently as possible on the forest floor just as Cyrus brings Windwing back around. As the heat at her back dissipates, Alice thinks she smells something achingly familiar.

_Home._

Then it is gone just as quickly as the strange arms holding her aloft.

Cyrus extends a hand to her and she is up again, leaping onto Windwing’s back. This time she faces forward, wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between her and the crows. He doesn’t spare breath to ask her if she’s okay, instead urging Windwing into a mad dash.

Alice can see the others, backlight against the trees where light cuts through the emerald leaves like furnace hot blades.

“We break the tree line, we fly,” she says, breathless. _And pray we gain some distance._

Cyrus nods, pulling himself into as small a position he can at Windwing’s neck to reduce drag. She slips her hands around him, pressing her face to his back. His heartbeat drums through her skull, the heat of his skin infusing her fear chilled cheek. She looks back, only once, towards the crows, towards whatever invisible force had so lovingly cradled her till she was safety on Windwing again.

_I’m with you, Alice,_ a distant voice promises.

This time, she isn’t so sure it’s the wind after all.

The four gryphons break the tree line moments later, launching into the azure sky like arrows. Despite the fatigue they must be feeling they do not slow their flight. Their powerful wings beat at the air, lifting their charges higher and higher over the tall grass of the field just at the edge of the forest just before it drops away to jagged cliffs and rock shoreline.

At their backs, the crows join them, filling the sky like a swarm of black locust.

“They will not let us go,” she says to no one in particular. She’s not even sure Cyrus can hear her over the howl of wind. He’s bent low over Windwing’s neck, face turned to the side as the air pushes his hair flat against his head. Her own trails behind her, tangling together, but she pays it no mind, focusing on what options remain.

_None_ , a tiny voice in her head says. The crows do not seem to tire and there is only so long the gryphons can continue on like this before they’ll fall from the sky like stars.

_Would that I actually had some kind of magic_ , she thinks. But even Aayushmaan has stopped his volley of attacks, focused entirely on curling himself into Lightstreak’s body as tightly as he can. The quick little gryphon is already pulling ahead of Cragmaw and Silvertail. Windwing brings up the rear.

It feels, all over, like her dream the night before. _Hunted_. Prey at the mercy of a carnivore. The sensation that something bites just at the edge of her heels. One slip, one mis-step and she will tumble and fall inches from their very teeth.

_Perhaps, if I offered myself to them the others could seek the blessing and return it to Allistar. Free Will._ For a moment she considers the impossible, considers holding her hands out to the crows and shouting, “Come and take me!” Then-

“Alice!” Cyrus grabs her hand around his waist. “The ocean!”

Below them, the sea stretching along the shore like a blue snake, cutting between two shores opposite of each other. The towering cliffs are a sandy yellow streaked with hints of crimson and burnt orange. But they seem to grow smaller in size the longer she tries to spy what has Cyrus so alert.

They recede further, until Alice realizes what she’s seeing. The cliffs are not shrinking, the ocean is _rising_. Up, up, up, like a wall, up to them.

“How is that possible?” she shouts but Cyrus shakes his head.

Impossibly, it grows taller, somehow, without pulling itself from both shores as it gains height. The closer it gets, Alice begins to think she sees someone standing on the shimmering blue snake of water. A woman.

But that can’t be…

Cyrus sucks in a breath and the others have caught sight of the same phenomenon. Sure enough. There stands a women at the crest of the rising ocean wall. She’s as blue as the water she walks on, hair like a waterfall down her back, all frothy and sea foam at the ends, the deepest reached of the ocean at the roots. All through her nearly translucent skin they can see multi-colored fish darting back and forth like tiny jewels. Her coral eyes lock with Alice’s, then shift to Cyrus. He stiffens under her arms.

“It’s her…” he says, but it’s so low, so lost among the wind and sound of ocean waves this high into the sky that Alice isn’t even sure she hears him.

The woman seems to direct the wall to the east of them, winking up at Cyrus and Alice as she passes with a glimmering eyelid that sends ripples through her skin like a petal landing softly on the surface of the water.

It rises up even higher till it’s nearly above their heads, cutting them off from the pursuing crows. Then it curves and crashes down on top of the riders and their mounts, sending them tumbling to the ground below.

A tendril of water, stretched so thin it’s more silver than blue, snakes by Alice; the woman floats across the surface, a coy smile curling her lips at the corners.

“Hello, Alice. Plur told me you would be coming. My name is Naimh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my lovelies! I know I promised I would not let so much time go between chapters and then life went and made a liar of me. I hope to have Will's chapter up MUCH sooner. I think you will like some of the magical treats awaiting both Alice and Will in the coming chapters. Because, when things seem at their worst, true love is the shining light there to guide us. Peace and love.


	17. I'm Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She tsks, wagging a long white finger at him, trailing her other hand across his chest as she circles him. “And yet, you are still so far away. You are still in between. What will you do, my beautiful Bloody Knave, when you realize you cannot cross over so easily. Did you think the sea was the only thing to separate you? Even now I send my followers to bring her to me. A southerly winds carries them with haste.”_

Allistar looms over him, like a tower set to fall at the slightest gust of wind. Thankfully, they’re underground, far from any wind that might send the seething man toppling over.

Will braces for his wrath all the same, but doesn’t raise an arm to deflect the inevitable blow. He won’t show Allistar any weakness, anything that might appear as a pleading gesture for mercy. Will simply stares him down, a feeling of resignation settling over him. His life still has value, so long as the former captain believes Alice won’t give him the Blessing if Will is dead. So he takes courage in that fact, even knowing that it likely won’t stop Allistar from dragging him within an inch of his life to assuage his fury.

They stay like that for a long moment, one trembling monolith of barely contained rage and one stoically resigned knave with steel in his eyes.

Then, as though he were a breath finally released, Allistar collapses at Will’s feet, burying his face into his hands and, startling Will, begins to weep.

Not a silent kind of weeping either. No, this is a body shuddering, wailing weeping that drops Will’s jaw.

He quickly gathers his wits and snaps it shut before Allistar has a chance to notice, though it appears the man is settling in for a long, long cry. Tears drip from between his fingers, darkening the fabric of his pants in dark little circles.

Were circumstances even a fraction different than they’d played out, he might have felt a touch of sympathy for this poor man. But as it stands, all Will can think of is the blade Allistar plunged into Alice’s hand. The sound of her scream. Shocked though he might be, Will hasn’t forgotten what this man has done and he isn’t about to let his guard down.

So he sits there quietly, noticing that the door at the top of the stairs is wide open. Will glances towards Allistar, head still in his hands, though now they’ve started clutching at his hairline in desperate clawing motions.

_Make a run for it. While he’s distracted._

The idea pulls at him. Strongly.

Then he remembers Badb’s words. He must cross an ocean to get to Alice. And there is physical one between them. One he has no way of crossing. The sea in the realm between waking and dreams however…

“I hate this place,” Allistar says, finally, seconds after Will has decided staying in Shoreline for the time being is his best chance at helping Alice. “It’s always twilight, the people walk about as though they are already half dead, and I cannot leave! Weeping Turtle may have uttered the spell that trapped me here, but it was Cora who truly cursed me.”

Now Allistar lifts his head from his hands, eyes red and swelling with agitation, hands damp with tears. The madness in his gaze no longer flickers with the same intensity, in its place a dull sorrow, soul deep and terrifying to Will, who wants to continue hating this man. But the look is too human. Had he once given just such a look to Ana? Had he worn such stark grief when he though Alice dead?

With a voice gone raw, Allistar whispers, “I’ve been the pawn of great and terrible queens. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson with Cora, but alas, here I am, once again made a fool before my liege. Only this time, it seems, she was playing me for a fool the whole time. Just another pawn.”

Will’s throat tightens. He’s unsure how to interpret this outpouring. It _sounds_ genuine, but Allistar's teetered on the edge of madness for so long Will isn’t sure this isn’t him falling off the ledge for good.

“She spoke to you? Didn’t she?” He asks in earnest.

“Who?” He knows who.

Allistar’s eyes darken but the sneering curl to his lip remains absent. “Badb. The Crow Queen, Lady of War and Prophecy. Told you about _Tír na nÓg,_ how to get there, didn’t she? She must have. You knew how to call on the magic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about mate, I was having a mighty fine dream in which I was kicking your arse-”

A fist clenches around the loose collar of his tunic, pulling tight and lifting him closer to Allistar.

“Don’t play games, Knave. That was no dream, and you know it.”

“Okay, okay, ease off the linens mate. You know how hard it is to find a dry cleaner in Wonderland? You squeeze much harder and you’ll permanently press those wrinkles into my shirt.” Will gently encircles Allistar’s wrist, pausing to show he isn’t going to hurt him but indicating he needs to let go. The man stares down at his hand, then, with a small prodding from Will, releases his grip. Will slumps back against the wall and lets Allistar’s hand go, holding up his own, palm out, to show he’s backing away.

“Who is she?” He decides it might be better to stop trying to make Allistar think he’s crazy and see if he can get some answers from him instead. Anything that might help him cross the sea between realms and help Alice.

Allistar eyes him, likely trying to discern how much he wants to give up information. The former captain has not been in the business of _giving_ as of late. Taking is all he seems to know anymore and the thoughts of conceding ground makes him pause. Whatever calculations he processes in his head, he deems it better to bring Will into his confidence rather than brush off the question.

“She’s one of the Moriggna. There are three of them, sisters, and they are Gods.”

Will tries to hold back a snort. Gods? There have been some pretty powerful people – _and magic_ – to cross his path over the years but he’s never believed any were _gods_. Though Mr. Gold had come pretty damn close. He still shudders to think back on his few encounters with _that_ man.

“A year ago, I dreamed of my duel with Alice. It wasn’t that the dream was so unusual in and of itself – I’ve dreamed of that day nearly every night I’ve been trapped here, planning revenge – no, it was how clear and crisp the details were. Beyond mere recollection. And _she_ was there, right beside the Queen of Hearts. She watched me and smiled. Then everything began to slow and she descended the dais and looked deep into my eyes. She told me that I would one day be instrumental in freeing her and her sisters. That great power would be mine to wield against those who’d wronged me.” Anger heats Allistar's cheeks into a cherry red, though Will isn’t sure how much is shame at recounting that fateful day and how much is the glow from the lights.

“The encounter passed into memory until word traveled to me that you and Alice were coming this way. Fortune seemed fit to smile on me, all the way in this dark corner of the world. The day she’d spoken of had come. She met me again in my dreams. Told me that I needed to capture you, hold you, and Alice would come. She taught me how to call on the magic of _Tír na nÓg._ I didn’t think I could do it. So badly did I want to make you pay it’d driven all my plans of revenge to a single focal point; kill Will Scarlet and Alice Liddell. But, I also wanted the power she promised. I wanted something greater than this half life. So, I captured you instead. Against every urge in my heart, I spared you at her behest.”

Will’s heart races, realizing just how close he’d come to death. Had Badb not promised him something grand, had Allistar’s desire for it not been strong enough, he’d have been nothing more than a corpse when Alice finally found her way to Shoreline.

And then she’d have been next.

A sour taste coats his tongue, all earlier hints of pity dried up and gone. He does not dare speak, for he knows his tongue will betray his thoughts, and his snark has rarely _helped_ a situation. There's a lot Will is willing to forgive, a lot he's willing to take in stride, because, let's be honest, he hasn't been the most upstanding person himself.

But this admission roils within him, the sudden fear of losing Alice all over again spears him sharply in the gut like a hot poker and he barely contains the sudden desire to leap to his feet and end Allistar before he can ever lay another hand on Alice.

This time, it's Ana's voice in his head, talking him down. _Don't be like him, Will Scarlet. Don't you dare._

To the ceiling Allistar shouts, “I did what you wanted!” He leaps up and screams at nothing, at everything, balling his hands into fists, and begins pounding them along the walls, the steel doors, the stone half wall of flame in the center of the room. His pacing becomes frantic, almost manic and possessed, as though he cannot stop, even were he to desire it.

_He's about to bloody lose it_ , Will thinks, concern returning.

“Perhaps I could talk to her.” It's the first thing he thinks of and the second he says it he regrets the offer, but it stops Allistar dead in his tracks.

Bloodshot eyes, red-rimmed and damp with a still flowing streams of tears snap back to him. The rage is gone, replaced with something that looks frighteningly like hope.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, caution in his voice. The former captain doesn't trust easily.

That made two of them.

But Will just shrugs, trying to appear as though this makes all the sense in the world. As though this were the only logical approach to the problem. “Don't thinking this is in any way for you, mate. I've right selfish reasons for wanting to see her fulfill her promise.” A lie and yet...not. He _did_ have selfish reasons for wanting another chance to slip into that in between realm. “I'd like to live see the other end of this situation.”

Allistar seems to consider this. “The old me would have believed you only cared about saving your own skin. But that's not true anymore is it?”

_No._

And suddenly he knows he cannot lie to Allistar. Not about this. “I'd happily do whatever I needed, even get some self proclaimed goddess to grant you power, if it meant saving Alice.”

“What would your Red Queen think? To hear you profess such a thing for another woman?” Allistar cocks his head to the side, stepping closer and crouching down low so their eyes are level. “Yes, I know about her. Your Ana. When you cannot travel to hear the news you quickly learn how to make the news travel to you. You loved her, True Love I heard tell. And yet, True Love could not even save her. Perhaps because such magic is not for a thief like you.”

The words hit home. “I did love Ana. But it wasn't True Love that failed Ana. It was me. And perhaps you're right. Perhaps bastards like us don't deserve True Love. But I believe Alice does and I will not fail her. I aim to see her find her Happy Ending.”

Allistar pulls back, settling onto the ground with a slight 'umpf', a look of awe passing over his ragged features. “You really mean that.”

Will says nothing, simply stares back at him.

“You love her so much you'd endure all this, travel to the end of Wonderland, just to find her genie, then watch her sail off into the sunset? Why? You could make her love you. Kill her genie and make her yours. There is magic and power aplenty to give you want you want.”

The steel in Will's spine hardens, making him sit up a little straighter, making his jaw clench a little tighter. “I've come to learn a few things in my travels with Alice. She would never, _ever_ , do anything willingly to harm someone she loved. She'd move heaven and bloody hell to see them happy. And I know, if she thought it possible, she'd give her own life if it meant she could bring Ana back for me. That's what you and others fail to understand about the kind of unconditional love Alice gives. It can never be coerced. It can never bought. It can only ever be earned. Taking her True Love from her would kill her just as surely as if I'd driven the blade home myself.” He thinks of Bethel, remembers the shell of a woman he'd found on that dark place. “Why would I ever do that to the woman I loved?”

Allistar stares at him, churning over his words.

“And if you think Alice's love could ever be taken by force of magic...well then, mate, you've seriously underestimated her.”

“Perhaps I have,” Allistar says in a low voice, eying Will with a look that's devoid of madness and rage. “You don't actually plan on asking Badb to grant me my power, do you?” There doesn't seem to be a hint of forthcoming violence behind the question. And it doesn't even seem to really be a question. Allistar knows.

“No. I want to cross the sea, and help Alice. I believe she is in danger and I think I can get to her if I can just cross the ocean. But I'd put in a good word for you if you'd let me try.”

Allistar snorts. “Don't be absurd. There are no more gryphons here to carry you over the sea and you would not make it in a boat. No one has.”

“I mean to cross the sea _in between_.” Will says, lowly, letting his words sink in.

Eyes slowly widening in understanding, Allistar draws in a breath. “The sea in between? That is possible?”

Will's hit with just how little Badb revealed the other man about the in between, while almost taunting Will to try and cross over. What reason could she have for wanting Will to know there was a way to get to Alice without coming to _Tír na nÓg_ the same way she had? His instincts tingle and sing under his skin, warning him, but of what he cannot determine.

“Show me.”

Now it's Will's turn to draw in a breath. “What?”

“You heard me. You will take me with you and I will find Badb myself.”

Will starts to protest but Allistar places a hand on his shoulder.

“As my word to Badb, I will never let you sleep again. You will take me, Knave.”

He doesn't even hesitate for a second, thinking of Alice and the look on Badb's face when she tried to touch her. “We leave now.”

 

***

 

It doesn't take him long to slip back into the in between. In fact, it's almost easier this time than the last two. And Allistar has likely learned the ease of it from his communication with The Crow Queen.

They find themselves once again on the shore, an azure sea calmly glittering before them. The whiter sands lay still, the air windless and still. The only sound that meets them is the soft rasping lap of the water as it meets the shoreline.

Will half expects Badb to appear but they are the only two for as far as the eyes can see.

Back in their cozy dungeon, they must look quite the pair. And even though Allistar had called up to his men to seal the door and not open it again until he gave the word, Will can only imagine what the others might think were they to spy them slumped in supposed slumber side by side.

Allistar breaks the idyllic picture with a gruff, “How do we cross?”

“Have you no imagination, mate?”

The former captain's eyes narrow, his face starting to turn red. But Will isn't worried, in fact, he's almost certain that here, in between, he's got the upper hand. His connection to the magic of the land is stronger than Allistar's. For what reason, he does not know, but it gives him a small sense of comfort knowing he could probably put Allistar down easily.

“I don't know about you, but all I see is sand.” Will sweeps his hands out, twirling in place to indicate the beach around them.

“You're point, Knave?” Allistar grits his teeth.

With a single thought, and an ease that surprises even him, a sword appears in his palm. It's long and narrow, the hilt a curving piece of metal that fits his hand perfectly. He swipes it through the air like he's seen Alice do a dozen times or more before their mock battles. Allistar stumbles back.

“How did you...”

“The same way you leapt across the entire beach to try and chock me to death. The same way I hit you harder than should be humanly possible. In this place, our thoughts direct the magic.” _Careful Knave, don't hand him a noose to hang you with._

Allistar looked at his hands, brows furrowing. He strains, willing something to appear where once nothing existed. Only, it never does. He drops his hand in frustration. “Why can I not call upon the magic? Badb must have given you the power meant for me!”

Maybe she had, but Will doesn't voice his thought.

“Well, how you propose we cross this ocean then?”

Will's already striding past him, the skies overhead hot and bright, but still clear and calm. It mirrors his own emotions. He feels steady, in command, at ease even in this foreign place. Almost as if...almost as if he _belongs_ here.

At the place where the transparent waters meet the opalescent sands a boat bobs up and down. He's conjured it just as surely as he conjured the sword moments before. Allistar falls silent beside him.

“We cross in that.”

 

***

 

The boat splits the water across its bow, parting it in silky blue streams to each side. Even this far from the shore, Will can see straight down to the bottom. It's deceptively close, almost begging him to try standing in it. But the shore lies invisible behind them, so far gone that it's nothing more than a soft white line.

And if that isn't enough of a deterrent from such an act, he spies impossibly large shapes swimming in the depths. He drinks in the details of each one; their speckled backs and pearlescent fins, their dark shells and powerfully long tails, their fringed maws and moon-sized eyes. No two creatures are the same.

Allistar watches them warily, clutching the sword Will handed over to him before climbing into the boat. He looks ready to spear himself a sea creature when Will rests a hand over his arm.

“Don't.”

Allistar looks at him as though _he is_ the crazy one, but he lowers the sword till it rests across his lap. He looks for the hundredth time to the bow of the boat, eyes nervously scanning the horizon. He's still trying to fathom the fact that they were moving through the water entirely by the power of Will's mind.

The envy is clearly written on Allistar's face, but it's coupled with an unsettled grimace.

A reflection flits across the nearly smooth surface of the water, pulling Will's gaze upwards. He scans the sky but it's clear. Not even a single cloud to be found.

“What is it?” Allistar asks.

“Hmm, nothing.” He almost convinces himself but for a moment, he thought he'd spied a crow riding the winds above them.

 

***

 

They make land fall what seems like hours later, their sea voyage surprisingly uneventful. The last time Will had tried to cross the sea, it'd been tumultuous and angry, churning with a ferocity he felt within himself.

Now?

The sea deposits them on a shore of golden sands and green waters. A forest of strange trees lay a hundred yards away from the beach, glimmering brightly in the sunlight. With their feet firmly on the shore, the boat dissolves into nothing, returning once again to where ever it's been conjured from.

Allistar gaps at the sudden disappearance, but Will's already turning towards the treeline.

_So used to magic now, you do not see the wonder?_ Alice's voice this time. There's a humor in it.

But that isn't the case. No, in fact, this is almost too wondrous to consider as anything more than a dream, and yet, he's so determined to find Alice that he accepts the magic for what it is, doesn't question it – perhaps he _should_ question it – if it will get him where he needs to go.

He's hyper focused on his mission and will not-

A shadow slides across the beach, pulling his gaze skyward once again. This time he catches a glimpse of feathers and a sharp beak snapping in the air.

“You came.”

Will spins on his heel, turning to face Badb. She's in a draping cloak of green-black feathers, her usual armor replaced with a dress of silk as dark as night. The collar sits high, stopping just under her chin, and accenting the dusky hollows of gaunt cheeks and the sharp line to her nose. The skirts are scalloped and he can just make out a delicate black embroidery trim in the shape of skulls. Her hair is piled up under a dark coif and a crown of black stone – _O_ _bsidian?_ – wreathes her brow.

Glancing at Allistar, he can tell the other man does not see her; he stares towards the glittering forest, hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.

“He cannot hear us,” she says when Will remains silent.

“Where is Alice?”

“You crossed the sea for her.”

“You knew I would.”

She _tsks_ , wagging a long white finger at him, trailing her other hand across his chest as she circles him. “And yet, you are still so far away. You are still in between. What will you do, my beautiful Bloody Knave, when you realize you cannot cross over so easily. Did you think the sea was the only thing to separate you? Even now I send my followers to bring her to me. A southerly winds carries them with haste.”

“I'll find her.” But his calm begins to waver, the sky darkening over head. He can hear the waves grow frenzied, frothing with white water as they begin to beat against the shore. She laughs, glancing at the ocean and the angry clouds beginning to form.

Then she leans in close, her lips nearly against his ear. “I'm counting on it.”

Will pulls back, confused. “Is that why you gave me this power? To lead you to her?” Had coming here been a mistake?

Thunder claps, lightning zigzagging across the purple-bruised sky.

“You think I gave you this power?” She throws her head back, her laughter sounding like the caw of a thousand crows. “And here I thought you smarter than the pawn.” She slides her gaze towards Allistar, mirth curling her lips into a crescent.

“You used him to lure me here. Why?”

Anger snaps through her dark eyes like the lightning snapping across the dark sky. “I used him to keep you alive. The well becomes the spring, becomes the brook, becomes the river, becomes the sea. All paths lead somewhere, but a stone in the right place can change the flow forever. I do not need you to find Alice. I know exactly where she is.”

He was growing tired of riddles. “I won't be your pawn, Badb.”

The boat is already forming at the shore, tossing about in the frothy chaos of an upset sea. He strides towards it, intent upon returning to his little prison in Wonderland, rather than lead her to Alice.

“ _If you leave, there is only one path,”_ a new voice says.

Will spins around, scanning the shore and sky for a new presence on the beach. Badb's eyes narrow, following his gaze to see what he sees.

“ _I cannot reveal myself or she will know I speak to you. You have no reason to trust me, but I hope that you will. If you leave, there is only one outcome. Badb_ will _capture Alice.”_ The voice sounds like it's coming from within his own skull.

_I've really lost my mind now,_ he thinks.

“ _You are not crazy, I promise you.”_

_Who are you?_ He asks, tentatively. He's not ready to trust anything in this place. _How are you able to speak to me without her knowing?_

“ _The crows may answer her call, but the trees answer mine. I am Plur na mBan and I can speak to you because the in between brushes against the waking and dreaming worlds. Just as I spoke to Alice, I speak to you now, half in dream. But I must be brief, she will sense me soon enough.”_

_You've spoken to Alice?_ Hope flares in his chest.

“ _Yes, I sent her and her companions to my father. But Badb has sent her minions after them. They will be upon them soon.”_

_You said there was only one path if I left, but clearly Badb wants me here. What does me being here gain her?_

“ _That I do not know. I cannot see that yet, the river diverges too many times and she has always had a broader view of it's flow and how to divert it. The crow sees father than the tree, though my roots grow deeper. I only know this...whatever reason she wants you here, there are many outcomes and not all of them favor her. You must beware her influence.”_

_Is what she says true? I'm here but still stuck in between. How can I help Alice if I can't actually reach her?_

Badb's gaze locks onto the treeline where the trees are swaying and glinting, and shivering, their leaves making a tinkling sounds like glass bells tapping against each other. Her brow furrows as she begins to sniff the air.

“ _You are in between, but you are stronger than even she realizes. Follow your heart and it will take you to Alice. You must go now, Knave. Now!”_

He felt the presence withdraw just as Badb shrieked to the sky.

“Wretch! I know you're here!” She spins on a booted heel, stomping towards him. “She spoke to you? The little terror! You cannot stop us this time!”

Will is surprised at the pure fury etched onto Badb's face, replacing the annoyingly confident visage with a contorted, pinched one.

Turning back towards the trees, Badb draws her sword, which had been hidden under the cloak and the folds of her full skirts and launches towards the trees. It strikes true, cleaving a tree in twain. Will can't be sure, but he thinks he hears the echo of a scream ripple through his head. Whoever has tried to warm him but truly be an enemy of The Crow Queen.

Without even a glance at Allistar, Will closes his eyes and thinks of Alice. “Take me to her. Take me to her,” he commands under his breath, pulling on the magic around him. It resists, at first, till he pulls on it, _hard._ He fills his head with her laughter, her smile, the scent of her freshly washed hair, the feel of her rough fingertips across his cheek. “Take me!”

The air around him whips and rents, pulling against his clothing like a ferocious beast trying to tear him free of them. Gasping, his eyes shoot open.

The land shifts, melting and reforming into strange shapes that have no mortal words to define them. Still the magic tries to resist. The ground tries to bend itself into trees, into sky, into mountains. He can still see Badb, overlaid on the images of a shifting landscape. But she begins to fade, trees replacing her.

He watches as she calls her sword to her once again, staring at the place he once stood...still partially stood in a half ghost state. He expects to see fury but instead she smiles, the curve sharp as any blade.

“Better hurry, faithful knight. My crows rarely fail me.” Her laughter follows her as she shifts into a large crow and takes flight, fading away completely.

The earth continues to shift around him. He closes his eyes against the sickening blur of motion. He feels at once stationary and moving at the speed of light. Uncertain of what his command on the magic has done, he holds Alice's face in his mind. The color of her eyes, the sound of her voice, the way her hair frames her face when she lets if hang loose around her face.

Then, a sudden and unnerving quiet fills him and all motion stops.

He opens his eyes, chancing a look around. The indeterminate shapes have finally settled into trees. They're towering things made of...gems. Around him, trunks a polished, gold streaked brown, the leaves emeralds the size of his fist, others with golden boughs and ruby blooms. Underfoot, a gem encrusted forest floor.

And before him...Alice.

“Alice,” he sighs her name, relief flooding him. She looks unharmed, if a bit harried. He tries not to give much thought to the fist around his heart when he sees Cyrus' arms around her waist.

“Alice,” he calls again, but she doesn't look towards him. Her eyes seem transfixed on the forest around them. He steps closer, noting the glazed look to her expression. He's seen that look on her before. In Bethel.

“Alice.” Will tries to touch her but can't quite make contact. It's almost like there is a force field around her, deflecting his hands. He tries harder, anger seething through him but each attempt results in the same.

_Here, but still in between._

“Because my bloody body is in Wonderland.” Next to Allistar. Who he'd just abandoned on the beach.

The sky darkens overhead, bringing his eyes skyward.

_Always looking up here_ , he thinks, mildly annoyed.

It takes a moment to comprehend what he's seeing. Crows, hundred of them, larger than any crow he's ever seen. And there are riders on each one.

Badb's followers.

Panicked, Will turns back to Alice. They're still mesmerized by something, unmoving.

“Alice!” He tries to push against the field separating him from her. He can feel it bow under the force of his attempts but it still deflects him.

Angry, he screams at the forest around him, at the sky, pushing against the field with everything he has. The strain makes the tendons in his neck go taut, the veins in his arms rise to the surface, blood beating through him like a war drum.

“Alice! You need to flee! The Morrigna's followers are coming!” He calls on the magic, willing it to yield to his command. _Yield, dammit! YIELD!_

Something gives under his hands and Alice falls from her mount, landing on the forest floor with a muffled crunch. He's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as though he's just run for hours on end but he doesn't even register the pain because Alice is up again, the glaze gone from her eyes.

Calling to the others, she's up on the gryphon again. It takes them a moment to shake off the stupor and then they're off, racing through the forest.

Badb's followers fill the forest in droves, the riders pulling weapons from sheaths.

Will reaches for the leg of one of the crows, commanding the magic with far more ease this time, though it still resists him enough that all he manages is to send the bird off course for a moment before it corrects and continues after Alice and the others.

Taking off at a run, he pictures a spot some distance in front of him and “jumps” to it with a single thought. One moment he's behind the flood of crows and the next he's between them and Alice. They stream past him and once again he's unable to do much but watch as they pursue her.

The sorcerer throws spears of lightning back at the crows, knocking one from the sky, but the rider is up and joining another.

Running after them, Will pulls as much of the magic as he can, pulling so deep that he can feel it fill his bones. He watches as Alice switches spots with Cyrus, pulling her knife from the sheath at her wrist. Several crows fly close, one of them knocking into the gryphon and pinning them against a tree for a moment. Alice lashes out at a nearby rider and when her skin connects with the metal she screams.

Will “jumps” again, expending some of the reserves of his magic pull to get him closer to Alice, just as a crow lifts Alice from the back of the gryphon.

“Cyrus!” she cries, kicking her legs in the air.

“No!” Will shouts, leaping into the air and calling on every ounce of magic he can to connect with her. This time, the field yields more readily and he manages to stop her short. But quickly the reserves begin to dry, the air around him sapped of the power he's so easily pulled on up to this point.

He strains against the field that wants to push him away again, banish him to the in between completely where he can only watch. He tries to pull her away from the crow but it almost wrenches her from his grasp.

No. _No!_

He pulls harder on the magic of the in between, sucking up every last drop.

_Yield! Yield, damn you!_

It pours into him at last, dredges of power with only enough strength to let him pull on her one last time. Her collars yanks free of the crows beak, dropping them towards the ground. He uses the last big of power within him to settle them gently on the forest floor. He cradles her head for a moment, staring into her eyes.

She cannot see him, but she seems to calm at his touch, the tension in her muscles melting somewhat.

The magic goes still and he feels the field re-engage. He can no longer touch her.

Cyrus scoops her up onto the mount. She slides her arms around the genie and presses a cheek to his back, her eyes glancing back once.

“I'm with you Alice,” he says, sinking to the forest floor exhausted, energy depleted, magic dried up and beyond reach. “I'm here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update this story. I promise you, it's not dead. It's still very much alive. And I wanted to give everyone a treat by posting two chapters but the next one isn't quite ready yet. Work (and promotions at work) have kept me so busy along with travel and working on a novel I hope to submit for publication. But thank you to everyone who continues to follow this re-imagining and I promise I will try to never leave you hanging so long again. XOXO


	18. Interlude by the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What’s happening to me?” she lifts one hand, staring at the talons still formed on her hands. The inky tendrils of her veins have at least receded, but the talons…she can’t seem to shake them like before._
> 
> _Plur tilts her head to one side, eyes wide and dark like a fawn and locked onto the talons. She purses her lips, thoughtful. “It is possible, somewhere in your lineage, an ancestor of yours was the child of a Tuathe De and a mortal.”_

There’s a sweet scent on the wind as they land among the tall grass just at the edge of a small cottage. Lilac and Lemongrass.

Alice feels her heart begin to steady, its earlier erratic pulsing slowing. Loosening her grip on Cyrus, she slides down off Windwing, grateful to be on solid ground again. She’s quite certain she’s had enough of flying…at least for the next few hours.

Throbbing, insistent pain draws her eyes down to her hands. They’re in a sorry state from the looks of it. One bandaged and stiff with deep purple bruising and newly stitching skin, the other angry and cherry red from where it made contact with the crow-rider’s armor. Even now, welts rise, enflamed skin burgeoning with blisters that look ready to pop.

She slides her dagger back into its sheath with some difficulty, wincing as the motion agitates the tender skin.

Beside her, the sound of rushing water draws her attention. A cerulean wave crests up and over the edge of the cliffs at their backs, arcing towards a spot just to the side of her freshly dismounted companions. She half expects it to crash into the ground and splash against them, soaking their ankles in soggy grass water.

Instead, the wave morphs into the beautiful woman from before, the one who single handedly saved them from certain doom at the hands of the crows. Naimh.

She shakes her blue locks free of the water, scattering rainbows across the air around her. The sea foam tips end just past her shoulders, curling with the salt air into delicate ringlets. The roots, deep as cobalt and twilight, are glossy and catch the light like the tips of waves catch the sun. Her blue skin ripples as she steps forward and the wave she’d emerged from pulls itself back over the cliff, returning to the sea below. The tiny fish are gone; or hidden behind her flowing gown, which is a comprised of pale green chiffon skirts and a coral bodice that matches her eyes. Her shoulders are bare, and the only jewelry adorning her is a small strand of rose pearls floating just around her neck without touching her skin and a live seahorse that curls itself around her left forearm just beneath the surface of her watery skin.

Naimh glances towards Cyrus, her look curious and amused, the look one gives another when there is familiarity between them. Alice glances towards the genie, surprised to see raw emotion in Cyrus’ eyes. They’re nearly gleaming with tears but he quickly blinks them away and touches a hand to his vest, casting his gaze away from the woman.

“Welcome travelers. Rest and be at peace. You are safe here.” Naimh’s voice is deep and sultry, smooth as warm water over soaped skin. It infuses Alice with a sense of calm and suddenly she wants to slump against the ground and sleep for days. Even the pain in her hands is forgotten for a moment.

“Thank you. Had you not arrived when you did, I fear we’d have been over taken by the crows.” Hands as they are, Alice cannot offer to shake the woman’s hand, only dip her head in acknowledgement. Luckily the sea goddess does not seem perturbed by the lack of etiquette.

“The Morrigna’s followers are tenacious indeed. But they will not cross the western sea to this side of _Tir Tairngire_. It belongs to the _Aos Si_. The _Tuathe De_ are not welcome in these lands, though that does not stop them from sending their followers in search of weak spots in our defenses.”

Alice’s head swims with all the names and the politics of a foreign land, but she simply nods as though this all makes perfect sense. Plur had mentioned the _Tuathe De_ and to avoid going to them for the Blessing. But who were the _Aos Si_? And what was their stake in all of this political maneuvering? What did they want with the Bloody Queen?

As though reading her mind, Naimh gives her a grim smile. “The child grown must rebel against their sires or be swallowed.”

Her words are cryptic but Alice almost thinks she understands what Naimh is trying to say.

Weeping clears her throat, saying, “My father mentioned there were great rifts among the people of _Tir Tairngire_. He said the children of the _Tuathe De_ and mortals were demi-gods with a connection to the elements and the earth, given to them by their sires but they were half their mortal counterparts and so were bound at heart by mortal desires. Are you of those children?”

Naimh dips her head in acknowledgement, a sad smile on her full lips. “The _Aos Si_ are those children, yes.”

Something about the way she says that sticks in Alice’s buzzing thoughts, lodging itself between the mysterious and yet comforting invisible force that saved her back in the gem forest and the strange dream warnings of Naimh’s daughter, Plur. Something to inspect deeper…once she’s retrieved the Blessing and saved Will.

Time was ticking down ever so quickly.

Would Allistar truly harm Will if they were not back within a week? She doesn’t want to risk calling the man man’s bluff.

Sweeping her arm up and out, Naimh points towards the cottage at their backs. “Oisin is awaiting you with much anticipation. Please, rest, and partake of our hearth.”

Behind her, a tendril of ocean rises once again, ready to envelope her.

“Will you be joining us?” Cyrus asks. Alice shoots him a surprised look before schooling her face. She looks back to the beautiful blue woman at the edge of the cliff, something tightening within her chest even as she chides her foolish feelings.

There’s another sad smile as Naimh shakes her head. She opens her mouth to say something then pauses, looking over their shoulders towards the cottage. After a moment her smile tightens into something sharp and resigned. “I must attend other matters. My beloved will see to your needs.”

With that, the water envelops Naimh, returning her to the sea below the cliffs with a soft _sss_ sound.

They’re left to walk to the cottage alone.

And alone Alice feels in that moment, despite the presence of her companions. Her true love.

But that rift opens up between them and she thinks of his eyes on Naimh and the way he keeps touching his vest as though clutching at something no longer there. It makes her think of the necklace she lost as she’d fallen off the side of the mountain. It’s been awhile since she’s tried reaching for it only to find it gone.

Had she so easily forgotten something that’d once been dearer to her heart than anything she’d ever owned?

Shame heats her cheeks, but thankfully everyone’s back is turned to her as they head for the cottage.

It’s a picturesque little abode. White stones as bright as opals form the walls, narrow windows made from dark brown wood peppered with patches of deep green moss dot the walls. They’re open, curtains billowing out in shimmering rippled, the material catching the light and forming prisms on the iridescent surface. The roof is thatched with flowering grasses. Around the entrance is a curling vine of wisteria supported by an arch of woven branches, the purple clusters of flowers hanging heavy and fragrant. Blue bells line the sills of the windows along the front of the cottage and just beneath them, anemones in delicate pinks and whites sway in the wind.

The door opens as they approach. A tall, broad shouldered man fills the space, staring at them with an open and welcoming face. His clothing is fine but simple, nothing more than a sea blue tunic and trousers. Around his waist, a thick leather belt decorated with seashells and a painted scene across the broadest part of an ocean wave. Around his wrists Alice can make out leather cuffs with detail work she’s still too far away to pick out. His face is weathered and aged but not unhandsome. He reminds her of a warrior fortunate enough to see the end of his battle years and retire to a gentle life in the country.

Not at all how she’d imagined a romantic poet from Ireland might look. But then, legends often fell short of reality.

There’s an ease to his posture that tells Alice he’s a confident man, Oisin. He does not hurry them waiting patiently for them to cross the grassy pasture to his doorstep as though he’s all the time in the world. When they finally draw close he steps from the doorway and greets them.

“Well met, friends.” His voice is deep and lyrical. Though he has not yet done so, Alice gets the feeling his laughter would be infectious and his mirth deep and abiding when shared. Already his grey eyes dance as he takes in each one of them, landing for a long moment on hers before ending with a slight bow at the waist for each of the gryphons. “What marvelous creatures! I’d never thought to see one in my lifetime, though travelers tell tales of them. Gryphons, in _Tir Tairngire_! The times are certainly strange. May they ever be.”

With that he turns and steps aside, inviting them into the cottage.

“Will we…surely we cannot all fit within your dwelling,” Alice starts, glancing around. “Perhaps there is a place our friends might graze?”

Oisin manages a thoroughly mischievous grin that sheds years from his face. “On the contrary, my dear, it will delight you to know there is plenty of room.” Then he winks and ushers them into the cottage, gryphons and all.

 

***  


Even forewarned, Alice is still amazed they all fit inside the quaint cottage. Whether by magic, or sheer engineering design, the inside is large enough to fit four young adult gryphons and their riding companions, plus their host, who takes up a position near a hearth draped with drying garlands of lavender and sage.

Chopped wood sits neatly in a pile beside the unlit fireplace where a simple iron stand holds a small cauldron. Small shells and sand dollars peak out between the masonry and stonework, sand piled nearly under several logs, sparkling as the sun catches in the glassy specs.

Alice cranes a neck around, taking in the modestly furnished, and yet impressively full cottage around her. It reminds her of Weeping's place, back up on the mountain. Jars line one whole wall, just above a work table set with myriad tools and canisters. Tied with strips of rough twine, a stack of herbs, flowers, and other strange looking plants sits beside the worktable. On a small shelf rising up from the work table sits a mortar and pestle.

Just off that small nook the kitchen boasts a deep wash bin and neatly organized earthenware sit in stacks inside open door cupboards with delicate sea foam green half curtains partially shielding them from view. A loaf of bread appears freshly made, still steaming from the oven on a cooling board. Beside the counter a cast iron stove glows merrily, smoke slipping from its belly through a long pipe that disappears into the thatched roof. Something delicious cooks in a pan on an opened vent atop of the stove.

The small round table just off the right side of the kitchen is set with several cups – seven to be exact – and just as many plates and utensils.

As though Oisin has been expecting them for long enough to prepare a meal.

Alice turns back to face the waiting man, catching Weeping marveling the ceiling. Alice glances up. Overhead, dozens of plants hang, drying in bundles. She catches Alice's eyes for a moment and then turns back to Oisin, who waits patiently for everyone to settle in and grow comfortable with their surroundings.

The living room – or what Alice might call such a room as open and yet inviting as this – is set with a love seat, a rocking chair, and three different types of winged back chairs, each with a different – and richly detailed – fabric; one a sea foam green to match the cupboard curtains, another the blue of deep midnight skies and ocean depths, the third a pale yellow like morning dawn and tiny flounders.

At the back of the cottage a partial wall divides the living space from the more intimate quarters. Alice cannot make out much detail from where she stands but the dancing curtains catch her eye just at the edge of the wall dividing the rooms. They look as though they're made of fish scales and they throw tiny pin points of light on the wall, drawing her eyes down to a small writing table. It's stacked high with paper and leather bound volumes. The feather point of a quill sticks up over the side of an open book, white pages dotted with lines of inky prose.

She looks away, afraid she's intruded upon something deeply personal even as she realizes the Poet Oisin of folklore is real. He's really standing beside the dormant fireplace as though he's ready to entertain a host of familiar friends and he couldn't be more at ease.

The gryphons find places around the couch, to the left of the fireplace, and at the bedroom wall divider to nestle down into. Their usual curiosity is tempered by the events of the day. They barely give their surroundings more than a cursory glance, exhausted and half asleep already.

She can't blame them. They've only been awake for a few hours but already she feels ready to collapse. The pain in her hands isn't helping matters either.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon and I imagine you could each use a meal.”

Lyldee and Corbin move aside to offer Weeping the pale yellow chair, taking over the loveseat once she is seated and comfortable. Aayushmaan takes the blue winged back trying not to watch his son choose the rocking chair opposite of him. Alice starts to move towards the yellow wingback, but turns instead to face Oisin again.

He's lighting a curved pipe in the shape of a woman rising out of the sea, pulling in puffs of sweetly musky smoke. He's watching her intently, the earlier lines of humor flat on his face. But his scrutiny is no less handsome on him than his laughter, and no less disarming. It isn't the look of someone trying to size a potential foe. It's the look of an old friend ready to say something that needs saying.

“I hate to bring clouds to this serendipitous meeting, or imply your hospitality is unwelcome,” Alice starts, trying not to look at her throbbing hands.

Oisin takes in a draw on his pipe, releasing a puff of smoke into a perfect little circle. “But you're on a mission of utmost importance and cannot dally. Is that about the rub of it?”

Alice smiles at his frankness, nodding.

“It is not my intention to delay you on your grand quest, Alice my dear. Quite the opposite, in fact. But you've come for the Blessing and that's no easy task. You need allies. The _Aos Si_ can be those allies.”

“They've already helped us so much,” she says, looking back towards the shore. “Naimh…”

Oisin's voice drops low, cutting her off gently. “While she is to be thanked for your timely rescue, I'm afraid Naimh is not _Aos Si._ She is _Tuathe De._ ”

This make Alice swing back towards Oisin, eyes wide. “I thought the _Tuathe De_ did not come to these lands. She said-”

“And they do not.” His face grows solemn and now it's his turn to look towards the sea. “The _Aos Si_ allow her as close as she dare come...for me. And because, once, long ago in a story too long to tell right now, she saved many _Aos Si_ lives. Out of respect for the fair folk, she does not take advantage of their generosity. She protects the lands of Western _Tir Tairngire_ but she does not come farther onto their lands than the cliffs. And betimes, this cottage, in the high tide.”

Alice feels her heart clench with a pang of sorrow. To be so close to his beloved and yet so often parted from her.

She's half lost in her own thoughts of Cyrus and Will and all the storm of her own heart when she feels a hand on hers, pulling it away from where she has it cradled against her other wrapped palm.

“You touched their armor.” Oisin turns her hand over in his palm, pipe sticking from the corner of his mouth.

“I think it burned her,” Cyrus offers, his eyes narrowed in concern.

Their host steps past her to the work table near the kitchen. He runs a finger along several rows of jars before landing on the one he wants, plucking it from the shelf with an ' _Ah-ha_ ' before returning to take her hand again.

“Ointment of Waterlily. Tis the only remedy for burns inflicted by Scythe-kin armor.”

“Scythe-kin?” Aayushmaan asks.

“Badb's followers. They wear a special armor. It's said the scythe of death, once a great weapon of power wielded by a dark force, eons before the _Tuathe De_ ’s reign, broke into a thousand shards and from those toxic seed grew a deadly hemlock of which Badb harvests the nectar. When she forges armor for her followers, she mixes in a single drop of her hemlock. The mixture is powerful enough to burn upon contact. Only the Scythe-kin can withstand the burn of her armor.” He rubs the salve onto the inflamed skin, cooling the heat just under her skin almost instantly.

“How do they withstand such a toxin?” Aayushmaan asks, intrigued.

Oisin shrugs, hand hovering over Alice’s. “Don’t rightly know. There is talk she stalks battlefields and resurrects the dead. In doing so, they’re skin is already touched by death and therefore cannot feel the burning touch of the scythe. Another legend supports that they are the unholy children of her union with The Dagda, a _Tuathe De_ rumored to have power over life and death, though I attribute that legend to his fighting prowess and a gift for growing things in even the most unfertile of soil. But he has been missing from these lands for longer than even Naimh can remember, so I am not sure how much stock I put into such fanciful tales as those.” He starts firm circular ministrations on Alice’s hands.

"So you do not know," Aayushmaan says, matter-of-factly, arching his brow.

Oisin laughs, deep, with his whole body. "I suppose not. None have taken a Scythe-kin alive for study. They are each runed with ink glyphs that consume their bodies upon capture. Though if I had to make a wager, I'd guess they coat their skin in a similiar concoction as this and must apply it daily. But that's the scientist in me." At the look on the sorcerer's face, Oisin adds, "What? A man of emotion and poetry cannot also be a man of logic and reason?" He tsks, a half smile curling at the corner of his lips.

“How do we fight creatures that might already dead?” Cyrus whispers nearly under his breath. His eyes catch hers, fearful and a bit wild. It’s the same look she saw on his face when he fell from the cliff over the boiling sea. The same one that’s haunted her nightmares for so long, and it knifes her right in the heart.

Either no one hears his question aside from Alice, or no one has an answer. Either way, the room is silent for a moment.

Weeping Turtle rises up from her chair, leaning over the Alice's shoulder for a better look at what Oisin is doing. “What do you use for your base?”

“A custom blend of grapeseed and coconut oil. Three reagents and a dash of sea water mixed in the full moon when the waterlily blooms. Don't pluck the bloom till all ingredients are fully mixed and have sat under full moonlight for two hours. If you pluck it too soon the bloom withers and all potency is lost.” He pats the rest of the ointment still coating her skin in a soft sheen till it fully absorbs into her skin then recorks the bottle.

Alice draws her hand back, turning it over in amazement as the bright red welts begin to shrink away.

“Very hard to make, even harder to find the right flower. Starlilies look just like waterlilies and trust me, you do not want to mix those two up.” He returns the bottle to the shelf.

Weeping gently pulls Alice's hand into hers, turning it over and lifting it to sniff the ointment on her paling skin. In just a few minutes the welts are completely gone, though the pain lingers faintly.

“How can I repay you?” She has no money, her pack back in Shoreline with Allistar and Will, and there's little in the way of valuables in Will's coat. Just a set of lockpicks, a key that looks suspiciously like one she's seen around Iris' neck before, her folded note from when she'd tried to leave him at The Golden Afternoon, and a stiff card that says Storybrooke Public Library on it. “For this, for everything you and Naimh have done.”

All mirth and humor leaves Oisin’s face and Alice can see what she only imagined earlier. This is a man who is more than a poet living a quiet life by the sea. And there’s an inner strength and steel hidden behind his affable smile, the hint of danger that reminds her at once of Weeping Turtle and Aayushmaan. “You can help the _Aos Si_  kill the Morrigna.”

 

***

 

Settled into the wing backed chair, Alice chews on her lower lip. She can feel the eyes of everyone, Oisin included, staring squarely at her lowered head. Her hair falls around her, shielding her from their scrutiny, each look framing a different emotion.

“What you ask...” she can't find the right words, heart heavy under the burden of yet another obstacle between her and...

She can't even remember anymore. The goal has changed so many times she isn't sure what the end looks like anymore. Once it was in Cyrus' arms. Then it was in a Blessing to free Will. Now...another quest, another journey, another way to break her heart.

_Poor, pitiful Alice_ , Jafar sneers at her, curling lips barely holding back a snap of teeth.

Allistar's deadline looms before her. _One week._

They've already spent two of those seven days and now Oisin asks the impossible...

She looks up at Weeping Turtle, holding the older woman's gaze, which is thoughtful and grim. She knows about the deadline, had thought it possible. For a moment she wants to be angry with the woman for agreeing to Allistar’s terms, but there was no way she could have predicted such a turn of events.

Not even Alice quiet believes it herself.

A trio of _Tuathe De_ want her to fulfill some deadly prophecy and become the Bloody Queen and their enemies what her to bring an end to that possibility. What did they see in her to make such a demand? Even Weeping Turtle had wanted her to spill blood. They all wanted a killer. Was that all they saw in her? A weapon to be used?

_I'm not that._

_Oh, but you are._ Jafar's words dance through her head.

_And didn't it feel grand? To wield such power over fate?_ He asks, his once ember eyes now spent of power; lifeless, they stare back at her in her mind’s eye. _Give me an army of ghosts, dear Alice, that we might haunt you for all your years to come._

_No, no, no,_ she tries to counter.

_Killer, killer, killer,_ Jafar chants.

Something pokes at her tender palms. She glances down to her balled fists, loosening them just enough to see tiny talons forming at each fingertip. They threaten to puncture the skin of her newly salved hand, sharp and deadly.

_What is happening to me?_ She stares in horror as they darken to a deep onyx, tendrils of darkness traveling up her veins. The desire to draw blood grows into a ravenous hunger within her. One little drop and everything will finally be alright…just one little-

Shooting up from the chair she bolts for the door, the air in the cottage suddenly suffocating. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. “No,” she chokes out.

“Alice,” Cyrus calls after her, but she's gone through the door towards the cliffs before he can reach her.

 

***

 

The waves call to her, far below the jagged bluffs. Tears stream down her face, hot and unhindered. She's held them in so long they can no longer stay within her. They pour in rivers from her, dripping down her chin onto Will's coat. The air is cool but all she can feel is the heat of her regret and shame burning through her.

“I didn't want to!” she screams into the darkening sky, remembering the look on Jafar's face.  

“Didn't want to do what?” a voice asks beside her.

Sucking in a breath, Alice spins and pulls her dagger from its sheath but its Plur standing beside her in a flowing green gown of chiffon. Her bark dark skin contrasts against the pale color so richly it’s almost surreal.

“Plur?” Alice lowers her dagger but doesn't sheath it.

The otherworldly woman smiles at her, teeth bright. “You were expecting someone else?” She nods towards the dagger.

Sighing Alice slips the dagger back into it sheath. I _'m quick to draw a blade and yet protest I'm a killer?_

“What’s happening to me?” she lifts one hand, staring at the talons still formed on her hands. The inky tendrils of her veins have at least receded, but the talons…she can’t seem to shake them like before.

Plur tilts her head to one side, eyes wide and dark like a fawn and locked onto the talons. She purses her lips, thoughtful. “It is possible, somewhere in your lineage, an ancestor of yours was the child of a _Tuathe De_ and a mortal.”

Alice stares in shock at her hand. “That’s impossible. I…I would…my father would have told…” she trails off, realizing even before she says it that her father’s adamant insistence that Wonderland was the product of an over active imagination is proof enough he would never have told her if one of her ancestors had exhibited an inclination to magic. He might never have even known.

“What does this mean me? I have latent magical abilities?”

“It would seem so, weak enough in other worlds that you would not know of its existence, but here, where magic is in the very air we breathe? It stands to reason this place would be the catalyst needed to bring those slumbering abilities to the surface. I suspected this might be the case, given what I’ve seen.”

_Great, as if things weren’t complicated enough_ , she thinks. “I’m not sure I can process this,” she waves her talons about, “right now. How do I get rid of them?”

Plur giggles, a light tinkling sound that reminds her of the wind through an Aspen tree. “There are two kinds of magic: spoken magic and magic of the will. Will it and it shall be so, if your will is strong enough.”

Alice sighs, dropping her hand. “Why talons? It’s not like I thought about having claws for hands.”

Plur lifts her hands up, pressing the pad of one finger onto the tip of a tiny claw. “What were you thinking of when they appeared?”

“Nothing like ‘I want talons’,” she snorts. Then she straightens her back, locking eyes with Plur. “I was thinking about how they all want a killer. The Morrigna, your father, the _Aos Si_.” She pulls her hand away gently, turning back towards the ocean, her tears diminished but far from done. “Even my hidden magic leans towards destruction. Is this all I’m meant to be? I’ve grown weary of so much death.”

Plur comes to stand beside her, the wind billowed tendrils of her dress float around them, curling against Alice's leg. “My mother is beautiful is she not?”

Alice looks out over the sea, the sinking sun painting the waters in golden pinks and reds; chasing it to the horizon line, a cloak of velvet blues and purples. Brazen ripples are the only disturbance on the surface of the water. They look like dancing lights, bobbing and swaying with the wind. She’s unsure about this sudden change in topic, but she nods all the same.

“I'm sure my father has told you already that she is _Tuathe De_. One of the oldest. She ruled the Western Sea and everything beyond its line. For a long time, she lived a powerful, yet lonely life. Even among the other _Tuathe De_ , she was singular. They hungered for power, mischievous, dangerous, dark power. But there were too many under my mother's charge to be so greedy and self-interested. She cared for her people.

“And for a time, the rest of the _Tuathe De_ let her rule as she might so long as she did not interfere with their own reign. The _Tuathe De_ were permitted to mix with the mortals of _Tir Tairngire_ but only as their whims dictated, and never with anything other than their own interests at heart. Their love was never meant to be a lasting union, for they saw themselves as beings above all others. They were fickle and cruel, leaving maidens ruined and men pining for lovers they would never see again. Coupling with a mortal was not the problem, they did it frequently and thus the _Aos Si_ , or the fair folk as my father calls us, were born. Somewhere between mortal and immortal, we are the progeny of ill-fate. But Naimh did the unthinkable. The unforgivable.” Plur's voice trails off, sing-song and gentle as the wind playing with their hair.

“She actually loved one of them,” Alice finishes, thinking of Oisin and his easy laughter. From the corner of her eye Alice can see Plur nod.

“When I was born, my mother knew she could never give me up like so many other _Tuathe De_ had done with their offspring, could never leave me to fend for myself, or leave my father grief stricken with her loss by leaving his side, wondering what he might have done to drive her away.”

“What did she do?” Alice sits down on the tufted grass at the very edge of the cliffs, the tips of her boots up to the very line of the drop off. Plur joins her, wrapping her skirts around her legs.

“She sent us into hiding. Behind the Western Sea where her power was greatest. My father built this cottage and raised me here till my powers manifested. Then he knew I would be better served if I lived among the other _Aos Si_. Many of them fled to these western lands as the _Tuathe De_ soured the land for those who my mother loved above even herself. They left blood in their wake, killing even the weakest of fair folk for their existence, just to send a message to their sister who they believed had chosen mortals and halflings over them. My mother swore her kingdom would be their safe haven. That she would raise no hand against them and they could live in peace.”

“But the _Tuathe De_ did not approve.”

Plus shakes her head. “No. They banished her and by then, her lands were no longer her own, given to the remaining _Aos Si_ and she could no longer travel the rest of _Tir Tairngire_. She's caught between two worlds, my mother. Still, she protects the lands she once ruled over at any cost.”

Silence stretches between them, only the lulling sound of the waves and distant birds riding the wind to accompany their soft breathing.

“You saw the might of her resolve today. Would you call her a killer? To protect those the others murder so easily, she draws blood and does not give ground.”

Alice considers, thinking of the crows and Scythe-kin plunging from the sky under the weight of Naimh's wave. It didn't feel like the same as her own actions. Her own guilt. “She protects the innocent.” _I’ve acted for my own selfish desire._

She’d wanted Cyrus back, it’s true, but she’d killed Jafar for the pain he’d caused Will.

Plur takes her hand suddenly, her palm warm against Alice's cool, salve-coated one. “You are caught between two worlds, just like my mother. Can I tell you what she once told me? The warrior wears blood on her hands so that those she protects may live free of such burdens. And a heavy burden it is Alice, but you among all others can bear the weight of those choices. I've seen it. You alone can decide if you will be a pawn...or a true queen. Not their Bloody Queen, or even the one my father sees in you. Love him, I may, but even I know that his path is only one of many you might walk.”

“You sent me to him,” she says, a bit defiantly.

Plur dips her head. “I did. And for that I can only beg your understanding. My father thinks only of me and the _Tuathe De_ 's desire to end the progeny of their enemy. He will help you, of this I can promise. In the end, only you can decide what you will do when you face the Morrigna.”

Alice snorts, looking back out over the ocean. “I pray I never meet them. I have less than a week to steal this Blessing and return home to save my friend.” When had Wonderland become home? No, that wasn't it. Will. _Will_ had become home. And she desperately wants to get back home.

When Plur doesn't say anything, Alice looks back at the slender woman. Her face, now cast half in shadow with the set sun and coming moonlight, is drawn. Her once vibrant eyes are pale, as though covered with a milky white film. Alice moves to shake the woman, worried when she realizes how shallow Plur's breathing has become.

With a gasp, Plur's eyes clear and she clasps Alice's hand tightly. “Of a surety, Alice, no matter what path you walk, you will face the Morrigna. It was certain from the moment you crossed over into _Tir Tairngire_.”

 

***

  
  
Cyrus finds her by the sea some time later, after Plur withdraws into the shadows of where ever she'd stepped from earlier. Back to her tree somewhere in between.

Their conversation and her parting words still echoing through Alice’s heart leaves her feeling hollowed out. Even the tears are dry, though she feels them building again behind her eyes.

Without a word, he offers her a small steaming bowl and cup. She takes it with a meek thank you and he sits down beside her.  The stew is warm and zesty, with potatoes and herbs and a hint of lemon. She takes a few bites, letting it warm her belly before chasing it with a cold refreshing gulp of water from the cup. They're quiet for a moment while she eats, each looking out over the silver-bathed waters.

“How is your hand?” he asks, breaking the silence first.

“Better.”

“We don't have to do this Alice. We can find another way to get the Blessing and free Will. Perhaps it will take time, but I know, together we can figure it out.”

“We don't have time,” she says, setting the spoon down into the empty bowl.

He turns towards her. “What do you mean?”

Chewing on her lips she runs her fingers through her hair, pulling at the tangles. “Allistar gave me only a week to find the blessing and return or he would take Will's hand.”

Cyrus hisses through clenched teeth, raking his own fingers through his dark hair. “Why didn't you say anything?” The hurt is evident in his voice.

An excuse rises quickly to her lips but she swallows it down, hating the bitter taste of her self-serving impulse. Instead, she hangs her head and shakes it. “I shouldn't have kept quiet about it.”

The talons prick her palms, reminding her of yet another secret. But she can’t tell him, not yet. There is still so much to process about the possibility she might have a magical heritage no one ever told her about. And that that heritage might just be the key opening a door to the darker side of her nature.

_I’ll tell him soon. I just need more time._

“Alice,” his voice is gentle this time. “I know something is troubling you and it has nothing to do with Blessings and _Tuathe De_ , and strange dreams or even deadlines given by madmen. Something deeper.”

She looks at him, fearing the look on his face, fearing it might undo her and she'll feel a wave of guilt so strong it will drown her. What she finds instead is an open, honest look of love and somehow that kills her all the more.

Trying to turn away from him, he catches her chin in his hand, turning her to face him. “Alice, do not turn away from me, please. I can bear anything but this cold distance.”

Emotion tightens around her throat, choking her. The tears threaten to fall again. “Cyrus...”

His thumb softly presses into her chin as he strokes her jaw line. He swallows, brows furrowing. “This...is not easy for me to say. Even harder to have admitted to myself.” He slides his other hand into his vest, reaching for something within the inner pocket. “You wanted to know what Naimh said to me. It was her, you know. I didn't know her name till I saw her, but it was her. She came to me and told me...”

He pulls something from the vest, rubbing a thumb over a smooth, glassy surface. It looks like a clear stone on a leather cord.

“She told me that I would both lose love and find it in _Tir Tairngire_.” Cyrus drops the stone, letting it dangle from the cord, holding it up to the light of the rising moon.

Alice gasps. It's not a stone on a cord. It's her necklace. The one that had once given her hope, told her Cyrus was still alive. The light upon which her whole world had once oriented itself. The one she'd thought gone in the mountains when she'd fallen. Now cracked and lightless, its only glow comes from the moon reflecting off the glass casing.

“I know that time has divided us and a shadow weighs over your heart. Will told me...only that you'd gone through something horrible when you thought I was dead. And I know you must be in turmoil over what you're feeling. Over your...love for Will.” He gulps, fingers tightening over the cord, but he continues, “Allistar gave this to me in the hopes of hurting you through me. Told me Will had stolen your heart from me. He wanted to make me angry enough to lash out. But I refuse to be Allistar's pawn. I refuse to be another pressure on your life. Whatever we may or may not be in the future, it will start fresh from this moment. I want you to be free, in all ways. And I want you to know, no matter what you decide, I will always be here for you.”

With that he tosses the charm over the cliff. Like a falling star, it disappears into the sea.

“We'll find a way to get the Blessing, Alice. I promise you. We do not have to do it any way but our own.” Cyrus wraps an arm around her and she lets her head fall against his shoulder, calmed by the familiar beat of his heart.

And in that moment she does not feel so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you my lovelies. <3


	19. The Rock Upon Which Fate Diverges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She said you were dangerous.” He folds his arms across his chest, a show of nonchalance, but behind the easy look he gives her he’s calling on his power. It stands ready finally, humming beneath his skin after so many hours of replenishment._
> 
> _“We are dangerous to the Tuathe De,” she answers honestly. “But I promise you, I mean no harm to Alice.”_
> 
> _His eyes narrow a fraction of an inch, his palm itching to call a blade into existence. “And what’s your promise worth to me?”_
> 
> _Her laughter sounds like leaves tickled by the wind, like bells chiming in a breeze. “Was my warning on the shore not enough to earn your trust?”_
> 
> _“Not where Alice is concerned.” ___

The magic trickles back into his veins in zapping, snapping zips and zings, tingling like a waking limb from slumber. It’s strange, to actually feel himself filling up, water into a cup. The refuel is slow though, and each time he tries to focus on the pull towards Alice, it sizzles like static in his head, the magic hidden behind a veil still.

So he travels on foot through a gem encrusted forest of silence.

Gone are the crows and their riders.

Gone are Alice and company.

He hopes they’ve made it to safety. Hopes his meager help offered them a chance at evading their pursuers. It chaffs at him that he can’t simply conjure an image of Alice in his head and leap across the distance towards her again.

Will’s unsure how far the beach is from the forest. It’d appeared close but there is no way of telling just how far he magically shot himself into the heart of the gleaming woods. Allistar is likely back at the shore cursing the knave with every ounce of breath he can muster.

_Nothing to be done for it now._

He is already going to pay dearly at the end of this all any ways. Besides, he’d taken him to the island where before Allistar had had no hope of crossing. Let him find his _goddess_ on his own. Will is here to do one thing and one thing only: help Alice.

To that end, he spins on his heel, gems cracking and breaking apart underfoot. They’d flown west but in his exhaustion, Will isn’t sure anymore which way is west anymore.

“Come on, let me sense her,” he mutters under his breath, trying again to pull on the magic still filling up his veins. It sparks but sputters out, still spent beyond use.

He squints up at a break in the trees overhead, refracted light refracting dancing across his face in amber and emerald beams. The sun has passed the point of observation but he believes the light is strongest to his left.

“Let’s hope their sun sets in the west here.”

The silence in the forest unsettles him, piquing his nerves with warning. All his years as a thief have given him a strong sense of danger and though the forest doesn’t appear threatening, there’s a layer of strange awareness all around him. As though the forest is sentient, watching him and marking his presence despite the fact he’s there and yet not.

Somewhere in between.

It’s all in his head, he knows, but it seems as though the tree trunks shift ever so slightly in his periphery, like catching the turn of a head from the corner of your eye. He tries to catch them in the act but each time he looks towards movement, the forest sits still and impassive.

The only sound offers a paltry comfort because it’s the sound of breaking crystals and all Will can think of is the money being destroyed under his heel. Too bad he can’t scoop up the delicate things up and take them back to Wonderland with him. They’d fetch a decent price.

It feels like hours but he eventually spies an opening in the trees and beyond that a field of softly swaying brush and grass.

Moments later, he breaks the tree line, the sun forcing him to shield his eyes. It sits heavy along the horizon, pulled into the land’s embrace like a shy lover. Peaks in the distance reach up to coax it down, beautifully bathed in golden reds and burnt umber. The wind through the grass is gentle and melodic, a soft _shhh_ sound which contrasts against the silence at Will’s back.

There is no sign of gryphons or crows in the blue-white sky.

Closing his eyes against the light he tries to concentrate on locating Alice, willing the magic slowly filling his veins to answer his command. It stretches and pops, shooting electricity through his body and settling in his teeth, making him shudder. Then it falls back into whatever recess it’s pooling and gathering strength, once again out of reach.

“What bloody good is magic if I can’t use it when I need it?” Frustrated, he runs a palm over the top of his head. When had he come to rely so heavily on magic? He, who’d lived in places full of magic but never commanded it himself…how had he, in such a short time, come to find himself so merged with magic as to find the loss of it like the loss of air in his lungs?

_Where did you go, Alice?_

“Because you exhausted It.”

Will turns, reaching for a dagger with his weak connection to the magic all around him. Nothing materializes but he can feel the strength of it burgeoning behind his will.

Badb stands beside him, clothed in a simple hooded cloak the color of a starless night. Her face is half cast in darkness, half honey sunlight. It almost lends her pale skin a healthy hue.

Almost.

“The mortals of distant worlds treat magic like it were only a mere tool. A hammer to drive the nail home and left discarded in the shed until they have need of it again.” She tilts her head, glancing at him around the side of her hood, a sneer curling up her full lips. “Magic is alive. And just as you tire when you run, It grows fatigued when you drain It.”

Despite her obvious disdain for the manner in which other worlds use magic, her words give Will hope. If he can recover from running then it is likely the magic would replenish itself and he could call upon it again if needed.

_Though, you’ll need to be more careful in how you spend it._

“So I used up…what? All the magic in the land? Just by helping Alice?” It seems unlikely, but he’s never wielded magic like this. It’s entirely new territory for him.

Badb laughs, tossing her head back. The hood slips back, revealing more of her flawless features but doesn’t fall completely back onto her shoulders. “Don’t be daft, you are far too clever for such nonsense.”

“And I think you’re concerned about how much I did use.” He’s caught a look in her eyes, just behind the laughter and pointed jab. A kind of wariness he’s seen in others before.

The laughter dies away and her gaze goes sharp, fixating on him as she bobs her head side to side in little darts like a bird. “Careful, Knave. We are not the only things to wander the in between. And they will have less patience with you than I.”

“Yes, because you’re the paragon of patience.” Will can feel the magic beginning to sing in his veins. Soon.

Badb hisses. “I’ve waited longer than you can fathom for this day to come. You cannot begin to understand the breadth of my resolve and patience.”

Will lets the dancing tufts of tall grass tickle the palm of one out stretched hand, trying to exude as much control over the situation as Badb seems to be losing. “And yet, here I am, because your pawn was working too slowly.” He looks up at her. “Am I wrong?”

“Allistar served his purpose. He got you here.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t Allistar who got me here. It was _you_. You gave me the clues I needed to cross the sea, to wield the magic in this place. It was your warning that set me in motion because now that Alice is here, patience is a luxury you’re no longer afforded.” He scans her face, marking where his words slip into the cracks of her composure. Something dawns on him.

“You’re afraid Alice will finish her mission and leave before you can take her for whatever dark purpose you have in mind. And she’ll never return and you’ll be trapped in whatever state has you so desperate.”

Badb shrugs nonchalantly. “There’s no chance she’ll leave before she fulfills her destiny.”

Will raises an eye brow. “Now who’s being daft?”

She squawks at him, clawed hands reaching out from under her robes to grab at him but she pulls herself back, regaining her composure just as quickly as she lost it.

A distant crow call pulls Will’s gaze sharply to the west. He sets off in that direction, pushing through the tall grass with a long, purposeful stride. If he can’t jump the distance with magic, by Oz, he’ll walk it.

“Where are you going?” Badb hisses again, materializing in a flurry of feather and dark mist at his side.

“To find Alice. Where did you think I’d go when you set me on this path?”

She grabs his arm, holding him in place for a moment only because he allows her to stop him. All humor leaves his face as he turns to look at her. Beneath his skin, the magic tingles and buzzes, eager to replenish and answer his command. _Soon._

 “You’re headed into dangerous territory,” she warns.

Will lifts one eyebrow, infusing his voice with as much deadly honey as he can. “Oh, I’m already there, love.” He pulls his arm free and continues westward.

She screeches behind him, the sound at once bird like and surprisingly human in its frustration. “The _Aos Si_ cannot give you want you want. They cannot give you Alice. Only the Morrigna can give you your heart’s desire. You’ll see and I pray you realize before it’s too late.”

He grits his teeth, spinning on his heel to face the crow queen one last time. “That’s what you don’t get. This has never been about _having_ Alice. It’s always been about setting her free.”

 

***

 

He expects Badb to follow him, squawking in his ear like a crow. But she remains at the dividing line between the grassy plateau and the gem forest, watching him from within her hooded cloak, which she’d pulled back up around her head.

Soon, she’s nothing more than a speck on the horizon at his back. He stops looking over his shoulder.

The lands feels different here, the magic…purer, though it doesn’t seem to fill him up as quickly. Such as that was; it’d only been a trickle before, now it’s a drop here and there.

Still, it feels sharper, potent.

He flexes his fingers, shivering as tingles race across the surface of his skin, prickling it into goosebumps.

The sensation reminds him of when he’d been thawed from stone, the first time Alice had used a wish to help him. One of her precious wishes and she’d used it to save him.

“I’m coming, Alice.” He clenches his fist, breaking into a jog that spears him straight towards the setting sun through fields of burnished gold.

 

***

 

As dark begins to settle over the swaying stalks, the sweet air grows cool against his skin. Waves pound in the distance and he can almost make out what appears to be a cliff’s edge still some distance away. With the sun sunk below the visible horizon he’s no longer sure his course is straight west anymore. Still, he continues on, surprised he doesn’t feel tired or fatigued anymore.

In fact, he’s acutely aware that the fatigue he felt before was wholly due to the exhaustion of so much magic in order to interact with those on the other side of the in between and not due to any physical tiredness within his own body. He doesn’t even feel the need to eat here. Or to sleep, or rest.

At that moment a scary thought occurs to him. Could one waste away in between if they never chose to wake? Slowly starving in their waking form while their soul lived out the rest of its short existence blissfully unaware of the danger?

Luckily, he didn’t have to worry too much that his body might die before he had helped Alice. Allistar would likely return to his body and kick him awake, seething with fury at being left behind.

_But what if he didn’t?_

Will’s feet falter for a step, then he shakes his head. “Stop being ridiculous, Will.”

“Being ridiculous is rather the fun of living, isn’t it?”

Will spins on his heel, turning towards the soft voice to his left.

Some feet away stands a lithe women bathed in the rising moon’s light. She watches him with an amused look on her doe like face, shining hair spilling down her back like a pale golden waterfall. Something about her presence feels familiar. Something in her voice.

“You,” he says, half in awe, half in understanding. “It was you who spoke to me back on the shore. Plur na mBan.”

She tilts her head, smiling at him, the freckles across her cheeks lending her a youthful quality while the age in her eyes speaks to years beyond the youth. “Yes. But please, call me Plur. A friend of Alice’s is a friend of the _Aos Si_.”

Badb’s warning rings through his head. “The _Aos Si_ …Badb warned me about them. Are you one of them?”

“I am.”

She doesn’t look dangerous, quite ethereal and innocent in fact. As though were purity a person, she would be it. But his time in Oz, Wonderland, the Enchanted Forest – even Storyebrook – taught him looks can be deceiving.

“She said you were dangerous.” He folds his arms across his chest, a show of nonchalance, but behind the easy look he gives her he’s calling on his power. It stands ready finally, humming beneath his skin after so many hours of replenishment.

“We are dangerous to the _Tuathe De_ ,” she answers honestly. “But I promise you, I mean no harm to Alice.”

His eyes narrow a fraction of an inch, his palm itching to call a blade into existence. “And what’s your promise worth to me?”

Her laughter sounds like leaves tickled by the wind, like bells chiming in a breeze. “Was my warning on the shore not enough to earn your trust?”

“Not where Alice is concerned.”

Plur’s eyes flash gold green, reminding Will of sunlight piercing a tree canopy. “Good.”

Confused, he furrows his brow. “You don’t want me to trust you?”

She lazily lifts a hand, pointing at him. “I want to _earn_ your trust and you should not give it easily. Not here. Not even to the _Aos Si_. The _Tuathe De_ may exact a devastating price, but the _Aos Si_ are a people bound by loyalty. We do not take kindly to betrayal. Never give your word lightly to the fair folk for we do not give ours lightly.” Her lips curve up into a crescent smile, warm and yet, Will can see the warning behind it.

This is the most honest anyone has spoken to him since arriving in Shoreline. Nodding, he finally finds himself on equal footing since coming to this strange place.

“Not that I’m ungrateful, but why help us? Alice, me…what do you gain by aiding us against Badb?”

She looks away, to the west. A sadness settles over her youthful face and Will is struck by just how much her changed features unsettle him. It seems cosmically wrong for such an expression of woe to stricken such a face. When she looks back at him, the look is tempered behind eyes steely with determination. “I will tell you, Will, when I can. Until then, a seer’s gift is also her curse. Whatever I speak has the potential to alter the course of fate as surely as a single stone can change the flow of a river. I must be certain I do not place the stone that will divert the flow into the favor of my enemies.”

Her words ring with a soft sorrow despite the hard resolve on her face. Will’s reminded of Mr. Gold. He’d seen that look on his face before, seen the years of knowledge and understanding take their toll on the Dark One. He wants to press but the glint of fire in her eyes warns him it’s futile. She cannot be made to tell him what she does not want to say.

“I’m thankful for your warning, earlier on the beach. But since we’re being honest here, I don’t care about some age old feud between the _Aos Si_ and the _Tuathe De_. All I care about is Alice. I’ll do whatever is within my power to make sure she’s not a pawn in someone else’s war. And if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” He half expects his words to anger Plur. She studies him for a moment before a smile breaks across her face, returning it to the beautiful visage from before.

Then, suddenly her eyes go milk white, her hand shooting out to grab him. He’s surprised at the contact, uncertain what this in between state of his body meant for such interactions. But she doesn’t pass through, instead her fingers wrap around his wrist vice grip tight and cool.  
  
Not the deathly cool of Badb, but the cool of a deep forest spring.

Will considers pulling away from the touch but her intake of breath stops him short. Her back arches, mouth falling open ever so slightly. He can only watch was whatever has befallen her takes its toll.

The contact breaks nearly as suddenly as it began, her eyes clearing back to their normal color, though they appear a bit dulled, as though whatever she’s just gone through has turned down the bright light burning behind their rich hue. She sways on her feet.

“Whoa,” Will steadies her with a gentle grip on either side of her slender shoulders. She feels shockingly hot in contrast to her cool touch of earlier.

“Thank you. It will pass.” A small smile quirks at the corner of her mouth but it’s a cold humor, the kind that follows weary resignation.

“What just happened?” He drops his hands but watches her carefully to make sure she really can stand on her own again.

“Sometimes, the dam breaks,” is all she says, her voice soft. Her gaze grows hazy as she gnaws on her lower lip. Contemplating how much to tell him?

He can see the strain on her then, faint lines behind the ageless mask of her youthful face. Suddenly she seems as old as a weathered tree in the heart of an ancient forest, the weight of her gift bending her at the waist, gnarling her limbs into a mockery of their former grace.

Then she looks at him, her choice made, and Will can read it as though her thoughts were his own. She’s not going to tell him what she saw. The single stone diverting the river and she has decided this will change the course of fate too much. But her face is troubled, her shoulders slumped forward in a defeat Will feels himself.

“Don’t count me out yet, love. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but it feels right and her eyes regain some of their otherworldly glow. A thin smile slips onto her face, replacing its wan hue with some warmth.

“No, I suppose I haven’t. The flow of time is forever changing. Perhaps you are the rock upon which such outcomes will diverge. I pray you are.” She grips his arm once, tightly, then releases him, the heat of her vision fever gone.

It’s then Will becomes aware of just how late it’s grown. How long have they been talking? It’d felt like minutes but the moon sits high in the sky, the stars twinkling across a blue black sky.

Alice.

“Go,” Plur says suddenly, stepping aside. “The Queen of Crows will eventually find a way around the borders, even if she herself cannot set foot on these lands.”

Will heads west, towards the cliffs and the calling shush of the ocean waves. Before he makes it even five feet Plur calls out to him again. She’s barely there in the dark, just a faint outline of silver and cerulean velvet. Is she growing transparent? Fading into whatever plane she truly exists on?

“Sometimes, Will Scarlet, the sacrifice is not in dying for someone, it’s in living for someone.”

His heart races in response to her words, magic crackling in the palm of his hand, at once strange and yet familiar, as though he’s lived with this gift all his life. But she’s faded entirely before he can conjure the words to harness everything he’s feeling in that moment.

Perhaps it’s for the best, for even they would fall short. Folding them back within himself, he turns towards the sea.

 

***

 

The cottage is dark and still when he arrives, the moon hanging heavy on the horizon.

He looks at the handle to the door, considering. “Oi, it’s bloody inconvenient to be incorporeal.” But he tries to pull the latch anyways. It resists for a moment, but after his efforts in the Emerald Forest the door responds much faster, takes less magic. It clicks, the door popping open a fraction of an inch.

Squeezing between the frame and the door, Will slips into the dark.

The thin stream of silver at his back breaks over the outline of a chair just in front of him. He freezes when he realizes some sit in the chair, back to the door. They do not stir despite the light that spills across the room, ribbon thin.

Rather than draw their attention by shutting the door Will slips further into the dark recesses of the room to the left of the entrance. He can just make out a kitchen of some kind, eyes adjusting to the deeper level of dark in this part of the cottage.  
  
Turning, slowly, he watches the silent sentinel in the chair. His breath catches in his throat at the profile. Her face is cast in shadow but there’s a thin silver line just at the curve of her cheek and at the crown of her hair.  
  
“Alice,” he says without thought, drawn to her one step at a time, till he rounds the edge of the couch to stand in front of her.

Her head is resting against one of the wings of the high-backed chairs, eyelids heavy but not yet closed. Will kneels before her, desperate to teach out and touch her but knowing the effort will cost him precious recourses, so he contents himself with drinking in the shadowed features of her face.

There’s a line at her brow that tells him she’s contemplating something. Glancing around, Will wonders where the others are. Cyrus, Aayushmaan, the Gryphons…the room is empty except for Alice. Turning back to her he sighs.

“I’d pay a ridiculous amount of gold to know your thoughts right now,” he whispers. “I’d probably have to steal it first, but still…”

“You’re better than that, Will.”

Startling, Will nearly falls back. Alice’s eyes are locked onto him now.

“Alice?”

“Will,” she says, and there’s that tone in her voice. The one that’s always followed a moment she found him utterly ridiculous. Like, of course, who else would it be but her? He almost laughs at how normal it all feels.

But…?

“You can see me?”

She tilts her head, a lock of hair falling from its perch on her shoulder. It’s grown long. He wants to run a hand over it but knows the cost. Besides, there’s a strange glaze to her eyes.

“They ask bloody deeds of me, Knave. What should I do?” Alice ignores his question, sighing deeply, her head lulling from side to side as though she were fighting sleep.

Understanding dawns within him. There’s only one place the waking world and the between touch.  “You’re dreaming, aren’t you?”

Now she does lock her eyes on him. “You’ve grown proper smart, haven’t you?”

“You’re quite tart in your dreams, you know that?” But he smiles at her, his heart soaring when she rewards him with a grin. It’s short lived though, falling from her face far too easily.

“I hear their call. They _want_ me to spill blood. Oisin wants me to spill blood. How can they believe it’s so easy to cut? It takes a piece of you. Gone forever.” She lifts a hand and mimics something fluttering away by wiggling her fingers away from herself. “You can’t get it back.”

“Alice, if there is one thing I know with all my heart, it’s that you can find a way to do it _your_ way. Don’t let anyone force you to act against your heart.”

“I’ve been acting against my own heart for a long time.” She gives him a look that makes his heart skip a beat.

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, he watches her face. This feels wrong somehow, as though he’s eavesdropping on an intimate confession.

_Should leave. Should stop her from saying what I think she might say._

Because once she says it, Will isn’t sure he could ever leave her side then. And dreams never come true for him; he’d be left in limbo, left in the waking world with the words of a dream, bereft. He’s not sure, after everything, he could handle that without breaking beyond repair.

_Sometimes, Will Scarlet, the sacrifice is not in dying for someone, it’s in living for them._

Alice opens her mouth, eyes so dark and riveting.

Panicked, Will says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Well, if I know you, there’s a damn good reason you’re telling your heart to avoid something.”

_Like loving a thief like me._

“Because I’m a coward.”

Her words cut through him like a knife and he almost can’t breathe.

“I miss you,” she adds. “I need your counsel.”

Gulping, he sits on the floor, settling in with his knees up against his chest. “Well, you’re in luck, Dream Will is just as good as the real deal. I’m at your service.” He gives her most confident smile.

It spills from her, the entire story of her journey, even his part in it. She gives him a strange look, almost as though she really knows who helped her in the emerald woods, but she doesn’t voice it. She tells him about Plur, the goddess of the sea, and the prophecy of the Bloody Queen. Most he’s heard but still, he listens quietly till she’s done, ending with Oisin’s request.

“You don’t owe these people anything, Alice.” Anger heats his skin. “You’ve given of yourself till there’s been hardly anything left. Let them fight their own wars.” It’s selfish, he knows. He doesn’t want her pulled into another battle, another war, another conflict that will break her heart yet again. He wants her back in Wonderland, with him, even if it means she’s there happy and whole with Cyrus.

“How else can I find the Blessing in time to make it back before Allistar harms you?”

 _Bloody Allistar_. She’s only doing this all in order to save him from Allistar. He clenches his fist.  “You let me worry about Allistar, Alice. I have a plan. Trust me. Once I know you’re safe, I promise you’ll be free.”

As though she knows his very thoughts she straightens in the seat. “What card is up your sleeve, Knave? Promise you won’t do anything foolish.”

He can’t. Foolish is his middle name. Instead he says, “Don’t let anyone else decide your path, Alice. You taught me that. We are in control of our destiny. I believe in you.”

She smiles now. “Dream Will is far too encouraging.”

A smug grin slips onto his lips unbidden. “Well, this is your dream, isn’t it? I suppose I am saying what you already know within your own heart.”

“And that is?”

“That I’m always right.”

She laughs, some of the glaze of sleep leaving her eyes. She’s beautiful, in the dark, laughing, almost lighthearted for the first time in a long time. He wants to tell her in that moment.

 _What would it hurt?_ She thinks this is a dream.

But even he, selfish as he’s been in his life, won’t take this moment and turn it into something for his own gain. Once said, it cannot be taken back and as much as he wants her to know, he will not say it in a dream that she might pass off as nothing more than a passing fancy.

“I should steal the Blessing,” she says after her laughter dies. Her hand slips into the pocket of her jacket. “I’ve your tools. I’ve watched you half a dozen times. I could do it.”

He doesn’t doubt her. Still…

“What about The Morrigna? The _Tuathe De_? They’ll be expecting you to come for the Blessing. Even now, Badb is probably working out how to entice you into coming for it alone and against your better judgement.”

She considers. “Yes, I believe you’re right. They’re expecting me to come for it. Which is exactly why I must. But on my own terms.”

Sternly, he adds, “And I’ll be there to help, Alice. I’m not leaving you to face them alone.” He knows there’s no point in arguing when she’s made up her mind. And he’d rather she confide in him, even if she believes she’s talking to an apparition.

Alice leans forward suddenly, her face inches from his. He can almost smell the delicate scent of soap on her skin, but he knows that’s in his head.

“Ever my rock, Will.” Then she leans in and places a light kiss on his forehead. It sears him like a brand. Not only the kiss but her faith in him. Suddenly he can do anything and he wants to run a thousand miles and jump across canyons, and shout to the sky all at once.

Plur’s words streak across his mind like a comet. _Perhaps you are the rock upon which such outcomes will diverge._

 _I can touch her in the dream world_ , he realizes. He reaches up and cups the side of her face, shocked despite his hope when the warmth of her skin infuses his hand. Her eye lids droop closed as she nuzzles into his palm.

“Stay with me?” she mutters against his skin. “Even if it’s only in a dream.”

Words fail him so he only nods.

Brushing back a lock of hair with his other hand to tuck it behind her ear, he breathes deeply, this time positive he really can smell her freshly washed scent. It’s like coming home and the ache that opens up within him makes him nearly whimper. He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed the very smell of her till it fills the air around him.

It rises up within his chest even before he can stamp it down. The words come to the edge of his lips even as he’s looking at hers and wanting her to brand him again.

Then someone’s in the room with them, walking across the room to shut the door and latch it locked before returning to kneel beside Alice.

_Cyrus._

Will nearly jerks his hand away, ashamed at the same moment angry at the genie. Which he knows is a foolish and childish feeling to have, but it blooms in his chest all the same.

Cyrus doesn’t appear to see him, his gaze fully on Alice. Gently he tucks an arm under her knees and wraps one around her shoulders, lifting her up and away from Will’s hand.

“Will?” Alice mutters, brow furrowing on confusion, almost as if she’s woken enough the dream world is no longer visible to her.

Cyrus stops short, turning back towards where Will sits, sadness tightening a vice-grip over his heart. But the genie sees nothing, looking down at Alice with a look that nearly cuts Will. It’s a look he’s had himself and in that moment all anger leaves him.

“Tis only I, Alice,” he says, pain laced through his voice.

Holding her close, Cyrus takes her into the dark and Will drops his head into his hands, wracked with guilt. The tears burn hot on his cheeks but the body full shudders are what hurt the most. And there is no one to hear him, lost as he in between.

Indeed, sacrifice is sometimes living for someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any major typos. I normally go through the chapter a lot more before posting, but it's been so long since I had time (due to life circumstances) to spend on this story I love so much, so I wanted to get it posted right away. I'm hoping things have calmed down enough to get back to regularly writing for this and my many other works. Thank you to everyone who's still hanging around, wondering what's going to happen and rooting for our OTP. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This will be only a few chapters long. Enjoy!


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